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THE LOCK AND KEY LIBRARY 


CLASSIC MYSTERY AND DETECTIVE 
STORIES OF ALL NATIONS 


TEN VOLUMES 


Nortu Europe MEDITERRANEAN GERMAN Curassic Frencu 
Mopern French Frencn Novets  Otup Time EncuIisH 
Mopern EncLuIsH AMERICAN Rea Lire 


TRANSLATORS 


whose work is represented in this collection 
af “CLASSIC MYSTERY and 
DETECTIVE STORIES,” many here 
rendered into English for the first time 


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United States beanine orcantianpts 
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“ And Sent out a Jet of Fire from His Nostrils” 


Drawing by Power O’Malley. To illustrate 
“In the House of Suddhoo,” by Rudyard Kipling 


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CLASSIC MYSTERY AND 
DETECTIVE STORIES 


EDITED BY 
JULIAN HAWTHORNE | 


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MODERN ENGLISH 


Rudyard Kipling A. Conan Doyle 
Egerton Castle 
Stanley J. Weyman Wilkie Collins 


Robert Louis Stevenson 


NEW YORK 


THE REVIEW OF REVIEWS CO. 
1909 


Copyright, 1909, by 


THe REVIEW OF REVIEWS COMPANY 


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THE QUINN & BODEN CO. PRESS 


RAHWAY, N. J. 


Table of Contents 


Rupyarp KipLine (1865—) ne 
My Own True Ghost Story. “ao ee 9 
The Sending of. Dana La 2, ae a eb Oe es 18 
Tn theo House Of SUCCHOG). “3! Gr ae ee 28 
Fite“ Weaded Wwite. ce 26 Si ee ee 30 

A. Conan Doy.e (1859—) 

A Case otuldentity;;> .¢ (so oc ey ee ee 
A Scandal. in Bovemia.e 2.5 as 86) ce Sy ee. = 61 


The Red-Headed Ledge’ <0 ea” ett os Se 87 


EcEertTon CASTLE (1858—) 
Phe Barons Oarry< 6. Gs Ae oe ee eae 114 


STANLEY J. WEYMAN (1855—) 
The Fowl 16 the bot 20) te eo ee ee ee TEGO 


Rosert Louts STEVENSON (1850-94) 
The Pavihion.on the LAMKS << 3.) as. “6: a ee 155 


Wrixie CoLtins (1824-89) 


The Dream Woman ie pro est ny eg eee eer ree 
ANONYMOUS 
Thedpets DuCHenS: s,s ete tee eee te ee 274 
he Minor Canones 6.0 (se ee ee ee a as 298 
er Rises Biche Ge a ce | ne ee ee ea ee cited ae 304 
The Puzzle er fat cae Na ge eee MED eins. Keuae 
The Great Valdez Sapphire Se tea | Aaah ORT A Rh PS 
Ka 4 P23 


had, Caz Preah 


Modern English Mystery Stories 


2 
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eve ® 


Rudyard Kipling beeen 
My Own True Ghost Story’ **** 


As I came through the Desert thus it was— 
As I came through the Desert. 
The City of Dreadful Night. 


SOMEWHERE in the Other World, where there are 

books and pictures and plays and shop windows to 
look at, and thousands of men who spend their lives in 
building up all four, lives a gentleman who writes real 
stories about the real insides of people; and his name is 
Mr. Walter Besant. But he will insist upon treating his 
ghosts—he has published half a workshopful of them— 
with levity. He makes his ghost-seers talk familiarly, and, 
in some cases, flirt outrageously, with the phantoms. You 
may treat anything, from a Viceroy to a Vernacular Paper, 
with levity; but you must behave reverently toward a 
ghost, and particularly an Indian one. 

There are, in this land, ghosts who take the form of 
fat, cold, pobby corpses, and hide in trees near the 
roadside till a traveler passes. Then they drop upon 
his neck and remain. There are also terrible ghosts 
of women who have died in child-bed. These wander 
along the pathways at dusk, or hide in the crops near a 
village, and call seductively. But to answer their call is 
death in this world and the next. Their feet are turned 
backward that all sober men may recognize them. There 
are ghosts of little children who have been thrown into 
wells. These haunt well curbs and the fringes of jungles, 
and wail under the stars, or catch women by the wrist and 
beg to be taken up and carried. These and the corpse 
ghosts, however, are only vernacular articles and do not 
attack Sahibs. No native ghost has yet been authentically 


9 


English Mystery Stories 


reported to have frightened an Englishman; but many 
English ents have scared the life out of both white and 
black.. : 

Nearly: évery other Station owns a eae There are 


Fey ce to he .two. at Simla, not counting the woman who 


‘blows: the bellows at Syree dak-bungalow on the Old 
Road; Mussoorie has a house haunted of a very lively 
Thing ; a White Lady is supposed to do night-watchman 
round a house in Lahore; Dalhousie says that one of her 
houses “ repeats ” on autumn evenings all the incidents of 
a horrible horse-and-precipice accident; Murree has a 
merry ghost, and, now that she has been swept by cholera, 
will have room for a sorrowful one; there are Officers’ 
Quarters in Mian Mir whose doors open without reason, 
and whose furniture is guaranteed to creak, not with the 
heat of June but with the weight of Invisibles who come 
to lounge in the chairs; Peshawur possesses houses that 
none will willingly rent; and there is something—not fever 
—wrong with a big bungalow in Allahabad. The older 
Provinces simply bristle with haunted houses, and march 
phantom armies along their main thoroughfares. 

Some of the dak-bungalows on the Grand Trunk Road 
have handy little cemeteries in their compound—witnesses 
to the “changes and chances of this mortal life” in the 
days when men drove from Calcutta to the Northwest. 
These bungalows are objectionable places to put up in. 
They are generally very old, always dirty, while the 
khansamah is as ancient as the bungalow. He either chat- 
ters senilely, or falls into the long trances of age. In both 
moods he is useless. If you get angry with him, he refers 
to some Sahib dead and buried these thirty years, and says 
that when he was in that Sahib’s service not a khansamah 
in the Province could touch him. Then he jabbers and 
mows and trembles and fidgets among the dishes, and you 
repent of your irritation. 

In these dak-bungalows, ghosts are most likely to be 
found, and when found, they should be made a note of. 
Not long ago it was my business to live in dak-bungalows. 

10 


Rudyard Kipling 


I never inhabited the same house for three nights running, 
and grew to be learned in the breed. I lived in Govern- 
ment-built ones with red brick walls and rail ceilings, an 
inventory of the furniture posted in every room, and an 
excited snake at the threshold to give welcome. I lived in 
“ converted’ ones—old houses officiating as dak-bunga- 
lows—where nothing was in its proper place and there 
wasn’t even a fowl for dinner. I lived in second-hand 
palaces where the wind blew through open-work marble 
tracery just as uncomfortably as through a broken pane. 
I lived in dak-bungalows where the last entry in the vis- 
itors’ book was fifteen months old, and where they slashed 
off the curry-kid’s head with a sword. It was my good 
luck to meet all sorts of men, from sober traveling mis- 
sionaries and deserters flying from British Regiments, to 
drunken loafers who threw whisky bottles at all who 
passed; and my still greater good fortune just to escape a 
maternity case. Seeing that a fair proportion of the 
tragedy of our lives out here acted itself in dak-bungalows, 
I wondered that I had met no ghosts. A ghost that would 
voluntarily hang about a dak-bungalow would be mad of 
course; but so many men have died mad in dak-bungalows 
that there must be a fair percentage of lunatic ghosts. 

In due time I found my ghost, or ghosts rather, for there 
were two of them. Up till that hour I had sympathized 
with Mr. Besant’s method of handling them, as shown in 
“The Strange Case of Mr. Lucraft and Other Stories.” I 
am now in the Opposition. 

We will call the bungalow Katmal dak-bungalow. But 
that was the smallest part of the horror. A man with a 
sensitive hide has no right to sleep in dak-bungalows. He 
should marry. Katmal dak-bungalow was old and rotten 
and unrepaired. The floor was of worn brick, the walls 
were filthy, and the windows were nearly black with grime. 
It stood on a bypath largely used by native Sub-Deputy 
Assistants of all kinds, from Finance to Forests; but real 
Sahibs were rare. The khansamah, who was nearly bent 
double with old age, said so. 

i 


English Mystery Stories 


When I arrived, there was a fitful, undecided rain on 
the face of the land, accompanied by a restless wind, and 
every gust made a noise like the rattling of dry bones in 
the stiff toddy palms outside. The khansamah completely 
lost his head on my-arrival. He had served a Sahib once. 
Did I know that Sahib? He gave me the name of a well- 
known man who has been buried for more than a quarter 
of a century, and showed me an ancient daguerreotype of 
that man in his prehistoric youth. I had seen a steel en- 
graving of him at the head of a double volume of Memoirs 
a month before, and I felt ancient beyond telling. 

The day shut in and the khansamah went to get me food. 
He did not go through the pretense of calling it “ khana” 
—man’s victuals. He said “ ratub,” and that means, among 
other things, “ grub ”—dog’s rations. There was no insult — 
in his choice of the term. He had forgotten the other 
word, I suppose. 

While he was cutting up the dead bodies of animals, I 
settled myself down, after exploring the dak-bungalow. 
There were three rooms, beside my own, which was a cor- 
ner kennel, each giving into the other through dingy white 
doors fastened with long iron bars. The bungalow was a 
very solid one, but the partition walls of the rooms were 
almost jerry-built in their flimsiness. Every step or bang 
of a trunk echoed from my room down the other three, 
and every footfall came back tremulously from the far 
walls. For this reason I shut the door. There were no 
lamps—only candles in long glass shades. An oil wick 
was set in the bathroom. 

For bleak, unadulterated misery that dak-bungalow was 
the worst of the many that I had ever set foot in. There 
was no fireplace, and the windows would not open; so a 
brazier of charcoal would have been useless. The rain and 
the wind splashed and gurgled and moaned round the 
house, and the toddy palms rattled and roared. Half a 
dozen jackals went through the compound singing, and a 
hyena stood afar off and mocked them. A hyena would 
convince a Sadducee of the Resurrection of the Dead— 

12 


Rudyard Kipling 


the worst sort of Dead. Then came the ratub—a curious 
meal, half native and half English in composition—with 
the old khansamah babbling behind my chair about dead 
and gone English people, and the wind-blown candles 
playing shadow-bo-peep with the bed and the mosquito- 
curtains. It was just the sort of dinner and evening to 
make a man think of every single one of his past sins, and 
of all the others that he intended to commit if he lived. 

Sleep, for several hundred reasons, was not easy. The 
lamp in the bath-room threw the most absurd shadows 
into the room, and the wind was beginning to talk non- 
sense. 

Just when the reasons were drowsy with blood-sucking 
I heard the regular — “ Let-us-take-and-heave-him-over ” 
grunt of doolie-bearers in the compound. First one doolie 
came in, then a second, and then a third. I heard the 
doolies dumped on the ground, and the shutter in front 
of my door shook. “ That’s some one trying to come in,” 
I said. But no one spoke, and I persuaded myself that it 
was the gusty wind. The shutter of the room next to mine 
was attacked, flung back, and the inner door opened. 
“That’s some Sub-Deputy Assistant,” I said, “ and he has 
brought his friends with him. Now they'll talk and spit 
and smoke for an hour.” 

But there were no voices and no footsteps. No one 
was putting his luggage into the next room. The door 
shut, and I thanked Providence that I was to be left in 
peace. But I was curious to know where the doolies had 
gone. I got out of bed and looked into the darkness. 
There was never a sign of a doolie. Just as I was getting 
into bed again, I heard, in the next room, the sound that 
no man in his senses can possibly mistake—the whir of | 
a billiard ball down the length of the slates when the striker 
is stringing for break. No other sound is like it. A minute 
afterwards there was another whir, and I got into bed. I 
was not frightened—indeed I was not. I was very curious 
to know what had become of the doolies. I jumped into 
bed for that reason, 


13 


English Mystery Stortes 


Next minute I heard the double click of a cannon and 
my hair sat up. It is a mistake to say that hair stands 
up. The skin of the head tightens and you can feel a faint, 
prickly, bristling all over the scalp. That is the hair sit- 
ting up. 

There was a whir and a click, and both sounds could 
only have been made by one thing—a billiard ball. I ar- 
gued the matter out at great length with myself; and the 
more I argued the less probable it seemed that one bed, 
one table, and two chairs—all the furniture of the room 
next to mine—could so exactly duplicate the sounds of a 
game of billiards. After another cannon, a three-cushion 
one to judge by the whir, I argued no more. I had found 
my ghost and would have given worlds to have escaped 
from that dak-bungalow. I listened, and with each listen 
the game grew clearer. There was whir on whir and click 
on click. Sometimes there was a double click and a whir 
and another click. Beyond any sort of doubt, people were 
playing billiards in the next room. And the next room 
was not big enough to hold a billiard table! 

Between the pauses of the wind I heard the game go 
forward—stroke after stroke. I tried to believe that I 
could not hear voices; but that attempt was a failure. 

Do you know what fear is? Not ordinary fear of in- 
sult, injury or death, but abject, quivering dread of some- 
thing that you cannot see—fear that dries the inside of 
the mouth and half of the throat—fear that makes you 
sweat on the palms of the hands, and gulp in order to keep 
the uvula at work? This is a fine Fear—a great cowardice, 
and must be felt to be appreciated. The very improbability 
of billiards in a dak-bungalow proved the reality of the 
thing. No man—drunk or sober—could imagine a game 
at billiards, or invent the spitting crack of a “screw- 

“cannon.” 

A severe course of dak-bungalows has this disadvantage 
—it breeds infinite credulity. Ifa man said to a confirmed 
dak-bungalow-haunter :—“ There is a corpse in the next 
room, and there’s a mad girl in the next but one, and the 


14 


Rudyard Kipling 


woman and man on that camel have just eloped from a 
place sixty miles away,” the hearer would not disbelieve 
because he would know that nothing is too wild, grotesque, 
or horrible to happen in a dak-bungalow. 

This credulity, unfortunately, extends to ghosts. A ra- 
tional person fresh from his own house would have turned 
on his side and slept. I did not. So surely as I was given 
up as a bad carcass by the scores of things in the bed 
because the bulk of my blood was in my heart, so surely 
did I hear every stroke of a long game at billiards played 
in the echoing room behind the iron-barred door. My 
dominant fear was that the players might want a marker. 
It was an absurd fear; because creatures who could play 
in the dark would be above such superfluities. I only know 
that that was my terror; and it was real. 

After a long, long while the game stopped, and the door 
banged. I slept because I was dead tired. Otherwise I 
should have preferred to have kept awake. Not for every- 
thing in Asia would I have dropped the door-bar and 
peered into the dark of the next room. 

When the morning came, I considered that I had done 
well and wisely, and inquired for the means of departure. 

“By the way, khansamah,” I said, “ what were those 
three doolies doing in my compound in the night?” 

“There were no doolies,”’ said the khansamah. 

I went into the next room and the daylight streamed 
through the open door. I was immensely brave. I would, 
at that hour, have played Black Pool with the owner of 
the big Black Pool down below. 

“ Has this place always been a dak-bungalow? ” I asked. 

“No,” said the khansamah. “Ten or twenty years ago, 
I have forgotten how long, it was a billiard room.” 

“A how much?” 

“A billiard room for the Sahibs who built the Railway. 
I was khansamah then in the big house where all the Rail- 
way-Sahibs lived, and I used to come across with brandy- 
shrab. These three rooms were all one, and they held a 
big table on which the Sahibs played every evening. But 


15 


English Mystery Stories 


the Sahibs are all dead now, and the Railway runs, you say, 
nearly to Kabul.” 

“Do you remember anything about the Sahibs?” 

“Tt is long ago, but I remember that one Sahib, a fat 
man and always angry, was playing here one night, and he 
said to me:—‘ Mangal Khan, brandy-pani do,’ and I filled 
the glass, and he bent over the table to strike, and his 
head fell lower and lower till it hit the table, and his spec- 
tacles came off, and when we—the Sahibs and I myseli— 
ran to lift him he was dead. I helped to carry him out. 
Aha, he was a strong Sahib! But he is dead and I, old 
Mangal Khan, am still living, by your favor.” 

That was more than enough! I had my ghost—a first- 
hand, authenticated article. I would write to the Society 
for Psychical Research—I would paralyze the Empire with 
the news! But I would, first of all, put eighty miles of 
assessed crop land between myself and that dak-bungalow 
before nightfall. The Society might send their regular 
agent to investigate later on. 

I went into my own room and prepared to pack after 
noting down the facts of the case. As I smoked I heard 
the game begin again,—with a miss in balk this time, for 
the whir was a short one. 

The door was open and I could see into the room. 
Click—click!' That wasacannon. I entered the room with- 
out fear, for there was sunlight within and a fresh breeze 
without. The unseen game was going on at a tremendous 
rate. And well it might, when a restless little rat was run- 
ning to and fro inside the dingy ceiling-cloth, and a piece 
of loose window-sash was making fifty breaks off the 
window-bolt as it shook in the breeze! 

Impossible to mistake the sound of billiard balls! | Im- 
possible to mistake the whir of a ball over the slate! But 
I was to be excused. Even when I shut my enlightened 
eyes the sound was marvelously like that of a fast game. 

Entered angrily the faithful partner of my sorrows, 
Kadir Baksh. 

“This bungalow is very bad and low-caste! No won- 

16 


Rudyard Kipling 


der the Presence was disturbed and is speckled. Three 
sets of doolie-bearers came to the bungalow late last night 
when I was sleeping outside, and said that it was their cus- 
tom to rest in the rooms set apart for the English people! 
What honor has the khansamah? They tried to enter, but 
I told them to go. No wonder, if these Oorias have been 
here, that the Presence is sorely spotted. It is shame, and 
the work of a dirty man!” 

Kadir Baksh did not say that he had taken om each 
gang two annas for rent in advance, and then, beyond my 
earshot, had beaten them with the big green umbrella 
whose use I could never before divine. But Kadir Baksh 
has no notions of morality. 

There was an interview with the khansamah, but as he 
promptly lost his head, wrath gave place to pity, and pity 
led to a long conversation, in the course of which he put 
the fat Engineer-Sahib’s tragic death in three separate 
stations—two of them fifty miles away. The third shift was. 
to Calcutta, and there the Sahib died while driving a dog- 
cart. 

it had moe him the khansamah would have 
wandered all through Bengal with his corpse. 

I did not go away as soon as I intended. I stayed for 
the night, while the wind and the rat and the sash and 
the window-bolt played a ding-dong “hundred and fifty 
up.” Then the wind ran out and the billiards stopped, and 
I felt that I had ruined my one genuine, hall-marked ghost 
story. 

Had I only stopped at the proper time, I could have 
made anything out of it. 

That was the bitterest thought of all! 


17 


English Mystery Stories 


The Sending of Dana Da 


When the Devil rides on your chest. remember the chamar. 
—Native Proverb. 


ONCE upon a time some people in India made a new 
heaven and a new earth out of broken teacups, a miss- 
ing brooch or two, and a hair brush. These were hidden 
under bushes, or stuffed into holes in the hillside, and an 
entire civil service of subordinate gods used to find or mend 
them again; and everyone said: “ There are more things 
in heaven and earth than are dreamed of in our philosophy.” 
Several other things happened also, but the religion never 
seemed to get much beyond its first manifestations ; though 
it added an air-line postal dak, and orchestral effects in 
order to keep abreast of the times, and stall off compe- 
tition. 

This religion was too elastic for ordinary use. It stretched 
itself and embraced pieces of everything that medicine men 
of all ages have manufactured. It approved and stole from 
Freemasonry; looted the Latter-day Rosicrucians of half 
their pet words; took any fragments of Egyptian philoso- 
phy that it found in the Encyclopedia Britannica; annexed 
as many of the Vedas as had been translated into French 
or English, and talked of all the rest; built in the German 
versions of what is left of the Zend Avesta; encouraged 
white, gray, and black magic, including Spiritualism, palm- 
istry, fortune-telling by cards, hot chestnuts, double-ker- 
neled nuts and tallow droppings ; would have adopted Voo- 
doo and Oboe had it known anything about them, and 
showed itself, in every way, one of the most accommodating 
arrangements that had ever been invented since the birth 
of the sea. 

When it was in thorough working order, with all the 
machinery down to the subscriptions complete, Dana Da 
came from nowhere, with nothing in his hands, and wrote 
a chapter in its history which has hitherto been unpub- 

18 


Rudyard Kipling 


lished. He said that his first name was Dana, and his sec- 
ond was Da. Now, setting aside Dana of the New York 
Sun, Dana is a Bhil name, and Da fits no native of India 
unless you accept the Bengali Dé as the original spelling. 
Da is Lap or Finnish; and Dana Da was neither Finn, 
Chin, Bhil, Bengali, Lap, Nair, Gond, Romaney, Magh, 
Bokhariot, Kurd, Armenian, Levantine, Jew, Persian, Pun- 
jabi, Madrasi, Parsee, nor anything else known to eth- 
nologists. He was simply Dana Da, and declined to give 
further information. For the sake of brevity, and as 
roughly indicating his origin, he was called “ The Native.” 
He might have been the original Old Man of the Moun- 
tains, who is said to be the only authorized head of the Tea- 
cup Creed. Some people said that he was; but Dana Da 
used to smile and deny any connection with the cult; ex- 
plaining that he was an “ independent experimenter.” 

As I have said, he came from nowhere, with his hands 
behind his back, and studied the creed for three weeks; 
sitting at the feet of those best competent to explain its 
mysteries. Then he laughed aloud and went away, but the 
laugh might have been either of devotion or derision. 

When he returned he was without money, but his pride 
was unabated. He declared that he knew more about the 
things in heaven and earth than those who taught him, and 
for this contumacy was abandoned altogether. 

His next appearance in public life was at a big canton- 
ment in Upper India, and he was then telling fortunes with 
the help of three leaden dice, a very dirty old cloth, and a 
little tin box of opium pills. He told better fortunes when 
he was allowed half a bottle of whisky; but the things 
which he invented on the opium were quite worth the 
money. He was in reduced circumstances. Among other 
people’s he told the fortune of an Englishman who had 
once been interested in the Simla creed, but who, later on, 
had married and forgotten all his old knowledge in the 
study of babies and Exchange. The Englishman allowed 
Dana Da to tell a fortune for charity’s sake, and gave him 
five rupees, a dinner, and some old clothes. When he had 


19 


English Mystery Stories 


eaten, Dana Da professed gratitude, and asked if there were 
anything he could do for his host—in the esoteric line. 

“Ts there anyone that you love?” said Dana Da. The 
Englishman loved his wife; but had no desire to drag her 
name into the conversation. He therefore shook his head. 

“Ts there anyone that you hate?” said Dana Da. The 
Englishman said that there were several men whom he 
hated deeply. : 

“Very good,” said Dana Da, upon whom the whisky 
and the opium were beginning to tell. “Only give me 
their names, and I will dispatch a Sending to them and kill 
them.” 

Now a Sending is a horrible arrangement, first invented, 
they say, in Iceland. It is a thing sent by a wizard, and 
may take any form, but most generally wanders about the 
land in the shape of a little purple cloud till it finds the 
sendee, and him it kills by changing into the form of a 
horse, or a cat, or a man without a face. It is not strictly 
a native patent, though chamars can, if irritated, dispatch 
a Sending which sits on the breast of their enemy by night 
and nearly kills him. Very few natives care to irritate 
chamars for this reason. 

“Let me dispatch a Sending,” said Dana Da; “I am 
nearly dead now with want, and drink, and opium; but I 
should like to kill a man before I die. I can send a Send- 
ing anywhere you choose, and in any form except in the 
shape of a man.” 

The Englishman had no friends that he wished to kill, 
but partly to soothe Dana Da, whose eyes were rolling, and 
partly to see what would be done, he asked whether a 
modified Sending could not be arranged for—such a Send- 
ing as should make a man’s life a burden to him, and yet 
do him no harm. If this were possible, he notified his will- 
ingness to give Dana Da ten rupees for the job. 

“JT am not what I was once,” said Dana Da, “and I 
must take the money because I am poor. To what Eng- 
lishman shall I send it?” 

“Send a Sending to Lone Sahib,” said the Englishman, 

20 


Rudyard Kipling 


naming a man who had been most bitter in rebuking him 
for his apostasy from the Teacup Creed. Dana Da laughed 
and nodded. 

“TI could have chosen no better man myself,” said he. 
“T will see that he finds the Sending about his path and 
about his bed.” 

He lay down on the hearthrug, turned up the whites of 
his eyes, shivered all over, and begarf to snort. This was 
magic, or opium, or the Sending, or all three. When he 
opened his eyes he vowed that the Sending had started 
upon the warpath, and was at that moment flying up to the 
town where Lone Sahib lives. 

‘“‘ Give me my ten rupees,” said Dana Da, wearily, “ and 
write a letter to Lone Sahih, telling him, and all who be- 
lieve with him, that you and a friend are using a power 
greater than theirs. They will see that you are speaking the 
truth.” 

He departed unsteadily, with the promise of some more 
rupees if anything came of the Sending. 

The Englishman sent a letter to Lone Sahib, couched in 
what he remembered of the terminology of the creed. He 
wrote: “I also, in the days of what you held to be my 
backsliding, have obtained enlightenment, and with enlight- 
enment has come power.” Then he grew so deeply mys- 
terious that the recipient of the letter could make neither 
head nor tail of it, and was proportionately impressed ; for 
he fancied that his friend had become a “ fifth rounder.” 
When a man is a “ fifth rounder” he can do more than 
Slade and Houdin combined. 

Lone Sahib read the letter in five different fashions, and 
was beginning a sixth interpretation, when his bearer dashed 
in with the news that there was a cat on the bed. Now, 
if there was one thing that Lone Sahib hated more than 
another it was a cat. He rated the bearer for not turning 
it out of the house. The bearer said that he was afraid. 
All the doors of the bedroom had been shut throughout 
the morning, and no real cat could possibly have entered 
the room. He would prefer not to meddle with the creature. 

21 


English Mystery Stories 


Lone Sahib entered the room gingerly, and there, on the 
pillow of his bed, sprawled and whimpered a wee white 
kitten, not a jumpsome, frisky little beast, but a sluglike 
crawler with its eyes barely opened and its paws lacking 
strength or direction—a kitten that ought to have been in 
a basket with its mamma. Lone Sahib caught it by the 
scruff of its neck, handed it over to the sweeper to be 
drowned, and fined the bearer four annas. 

That evening, as he was reading in his room, he fancied 
that he saw something moving about on the hearthrug, 
outside the circle of light from his reading lamp. When 
the thing began to myowl, he realized that it was a kitten 
—a wee white kitten, nearly blind and very miserable. He 
was seriously angry, and spoke bitterly to his bearer, who 
said that there was no kitten in the room when he brought 
in the lamp, and real kittens of tender age generally had | 
mother cats in attendance. 

“Tf the Presence will go out into the veranda and listen,” 
said the bearer, “he will hear no cats. How, therefore, 
can the kitten on the bed and the kitten on the hearthrug 
be real kittens?” 

Lone Sahib went out to listen, and the bearer followed 
him, but there was no sound of Rachel mewing for her 
children. He returned to his room, having hurled the kit- 
ten down the hillside, and wrote out the incidents of the 
day for the benefit of his coreligionists. Those people were 
so absolutely free from superstition that they ascribed any- 
thing a little out of the common to agencies. As it was 
their business to know all about the agencies, they were on 
terms of almost indecent familiarity with manifestations of 
every kind. Their letters dropped from the ceiling—un- 
stamped—and spirits used to squatter up and down their 
staircases all night. But they had never come into con- 
tact with kittens. Lone Sahib wrote out the facts, noting 
the hour and the minute, as every psychical observer is 
bound to do, and appending the Englishman’s letter be- 
cause it was the most mysterious document and might have 
had a bearing upon anything in this world or the next. An 

22 


Rudyard Kipling 


outsider would have translated all the tangle thus: “ Look 
out! You laughed at me once, and now I am going to 
make you sit up.” 

Lone Sahib’s coreligionists found that meaning in it; but 
their translation was refined and full of four-syllable words. 
They held a sederunt, and were filled with tremulous joy, 
for, in spite of their familiarity with all the other worlds 
and cycles, they had a very human awe of things sent from 
ghostland. They met in Lone Sahib’s room in shrouded 
and sepulchral gloom, and their conclave was broken up 
by a clinking among the photo frames on the mantelpiece. 
A wee white kitten, nearly blind, was looping and writhing 
itself between the clock and the candlesticks. That stopped 
all investigations or doubtings. Here was the manifesta- 
tion in the flesh. It was, so far as could be seen, devoid of 
purpose, but it was a manifestation of undoubted authen- 
ticity. 

They drafted a round robin to the Englishman, the back- 
slider of old days, adjuring him in the interests of the creed 
to explain whether there was any connection between the 
embodiment of some Egyptian god or other (I have forgot- 
ten the name) and his communication. They called the 
kitten Ra, or Toth, or Shem, or Noah, or something ; and 
when Lone Sahib confessed that the first one had, at his 
most misguided instance, been drowned by the sweeper, 
they said consolingly that in his next life he would be a 
“ bounder,” and not even a “ rounder” of the lowest grade. 
These words may not be quite correct, but they express 
the sense of the house accurately. 

When the Englishman received the round robin—it came 
by post—he was startled and bewildered. He sent into the 
bazaar for Dana Da, who read the letter and laughed. 
“ That is my Sending,” said he. “I told you I would work 
well. Now give me another ten rupees.” 

“ But what in the world is this gibberish about Egyptian 
gods?” asked the Englishman. 

“ Cats,” said Dana Da, with a hiccough, for he had dis- 
covered the Englishman’s whisky bottle. “Cats and cats 


23 


English Mystery Stories 


and cats! Never was such a Sending. A hundred of cats. 
Now give me ten more rupees and write as I dictate.” 

Dana Da’s letter was a curiosity. It bore the English- 
man’s signature, and hinted at cats—at a Sending of cats. 
The mere words on paper were creepy and uncanny to be- 
hold. : 

“What have you done, though?” said the Englishman ; 
“Tam as much in the dark as ever. Do you mean to say 
that you can actually send this absurd Sending you talk 
about?” 

“Judge for yourself,” said Dana Da. ‘“ What does that 
letter mean? In a little time they will all be at my feet 
and yours, and I, oh, glory! will be drugged or drunk all 
day long.” 

Dana Da knew his people. 

When a man who hates cats wakes up in the morning ~ 
and finds a little squirming kitten on his breast, or puts his 
hand into his ulster pocket and finds a little half-dead kitten 
where his gloves should be, or opens his trunk and finds 
a vile kitten among his dress shirts, or goes for a long ride 
with his mackintosh strapped on his saddle-bow and shakes 
a little sprawling kitten from its folds when he opens it, or 
goes out to dinner and finds a little blind kitten under his 
chair, or stays at home and finds a writhing kitten under 
the quilt, or wriggling among his boots, or hanging, head 
downward, in his tobacco jar, or being mangled by his ter- 
rier in the veranda—when such a man finds one kitten, 
neither more nor less, once a day in a place where no kit- 
ten rightly could or should be, he is naturally upset. When 
he dare not murder his daily trove because he believes it 
to be a manifestation, an emissary, an embodiment, and 
half a dozen other things all out of the regular course of 
nature, he is more than upset. He is actually distressed. 
Some of Lone Sahib’s coreligionists thought that he was 
a highly favored individual; but many said that if he had 
treated the first kitten with proper respect—as suited a 
Toth-Ra Tum-Sennacherib Embodiment —all his trouble 
would have been averted. They compared him to the An- 


24 


Rudyard Kipling 


cient Mariner, but none the less they were proud of him 
and proud of the Englishman who had sent the manifesta- 
tion. They did not call it a Sending because Icelandic 
magic was not in their programme. 

After sixteen kittens—that is to say, after one fortnight, 
for there were three kittens on the first day to impress the 
fact of the Sending, the whole camp was uplifted by a let- 
ter—it came flying through a window—from the Old Man 
of the Mountains—the head of all the creed—explaining 
the manifestation in the most beautiful language and soak- 
ing up all the credit of it for himself. The Englishman, 
said the letter, was not there at all. He was a backslider 
without power or asceticism, who couldn’t even raise a 
table by force of volition, much less project an army of 
kittens through space. The entire arrangement, said the 
letter, was strictly orthodox, worked and sanctioned by the 
highest authorities within the pale of the creed. There 
was great joy at this, for some of the weaker brethren see- 
ing that an outsider who had been working on independent 
lines could create kittens, whereas their own rulers had 
never gone beyond crockery—and broken at that—were 
showing a desire to break line on their own trail. In fact, 
there was the promise of a schism. A second round robin 
was drafted to the Englishman, beginning: “ Oh, Scoffer,” 
and ending with a selection of curses from the rites of 
Mizraim and Memphis and the Commination of Jugana; 
who was a “ fifth rounder,” upon whose name an upstart 
“third rounder” once traded. A papal excommunication 
is a billet-doux compared to the Commination of Jugana. 
The Englishman had been proved under the hand and seal 
of the Old Man of the Mountains to have appropriated 
virtue and pretended to have power which, in reality, be- 
longed only to the supreme head. Naturally the round 
robin did not spare him. 

He handed the letter to Dana Da to translate into decent 
English. The effect on Dana Da was curious. At first 
he was furiously angry, and then he laughed for five min- 
utes. 


25 


English Mystery Stories 


“T had thought,” he said, “that they would have come 
to me. In another week I would have shown that I sent 
the Sending, and they would have discrowned the Old Man 
of the Mountains who has sent this Sending of mine Do 
you do nothing. The time has come for me to act. Write 
as I dictate, and I will put them to shame. But give me 
ten more rupees.” 

At Dana Da’s dictation the Englishman wrote nothing 
less than a formal challenge to the Old Man of the Moun- 
tains. It wound up: “And if this manifestation be from 
your hand, then let it go forward; but if it be from my 
hand, I will that the Sending shall cease in two days’ time. 
On that day there shall be twelve kittens and thencefor- 
ward none at all. The people shall judge between us.” 
This was signed by Dana Da, who added pentacles and 
pentagrams, and a crux ansata, and half a dozen swastikas, © 
and a Triple Tau to his name, just to show that he was all 
he laid claim to be. 

The challenge was read out to the gentlemen and ladies, 
and they remembered then that Dana Da had laughed at 
them some years ago. It was officially announced that the 
Old Man of the Mountains would treat the matter with con- 
tempt; Dana Da being an independent investigator with- 
out a single “round” at the back of him. But this did not 
soothe his people. They wanted to see a fight. They were 
very human for all their spirituality. Lone Sahib, who was 
really being worn out with kittens, submitted meekly to his 
fate. He felt that he was being “ kittened to prove the 
power of Dana Da,” as the poet says. 

When the stated day dawned, the shower of kittens be- 
gan. Some were white and some were tabby, and all were 
about the same loathsome age. Three were on his hearth- 
rug, three in his bathroom, and the other six turned up 
at intervals among the visitors who came to see the 
prophecy break down. Never was a more satisfactory 
Sending. On the next day there were no kittens, and the 
next day and all the other days were kittenless and quiet. 
The people murmured and looked to the Old Man of the 

26 


Rudyard Kipling 


Mountains for an explanation. A letter, written on a palm 
leaf, dropped from the ceiling, but everyone except Lone 
Sahib felt that letters were not what the occasion demanded. 
There should have been cats, there should have been cats 
—full-grown ones. The letter proved conclusively that 
there had been a hitch in the psychic current which, col- 
liding with a dual identity, had interfered with the per- 
cipient activity all along the main line. The kittens were 
still going on, but owing to some failure in the developing 
fluid, they were not materialized. The air was thick with 
letters for a few days afterwards. Unseen hands played 
Gluck and Beethoven on finger-bowls and clock shades; 
but all men felt that psychic life was a mockery without 
materialized kittens. Even Lone Sahib shouted with the 
majority on this head. Dana Da’s letters were very in- 
sulting, and if he had then offered to lead a new departure, 
there is no knowing what might not have happened. 

But Dana Da was dying of whisky and opium in the 
Englishman’s go-down, and had small heart for new 
creeds. 

“They have been put to shame,” said he. “ Never was 
such a Sending. It has killed me.” 

“Nonsense,” said the Englishman, “you are going to 
die, Dana Da, and that sort of stuff must be left behind. 
I'll admit that you have made some queer things come 
about. Tell me honestly, now, how was it done?” 

“ Give me ten more rupees,” said Dana Da, faintly, “ and 
if I die before I spend them, bury them with me.” The 
silver was counted out while Dana Da was fighting with 
death. His hand closed upon the money and he smiled a 
grim smile. 

“ Bend low,” he whispered. The Englishman bent. 

“ Bunnia—mission school—expelled—box-wallah (ped- 
dler)—Ceylon pearl merchant—all mine English education 
—outcasted, and made up name Dana Da—England with 
American thought-reading man and—and—you gave me 
ten rupees several times—I gave the Sahib’s bearer two- 
eight a month for cats—little, little cats. I wrote, and he 


27 


English Mystery Stories 


put them about—very clever man. Very few kittens now 
in the bazaar. Ask Lone Sahib’s sweeper’s wife.” 

So saying, Dana Da gasped and passed away into a land 
where, if all be true, there are no materializations and the 
making of new creeds is discouraged. 

But consider the gorgeous simplicity of it all! 


In the House of Suddhoo 


A stone’s throw out on either hand 
From that well-ordered road we tread, 

And all the world is wild and strange; 
Churel and ghoul and Djinn and sprite 
Shall bear us company to-night, 
For we have reached the Oldest Land 

Wherein the Powers of Darkness range. 

—From the Dusk to the Dawn. 


THE house of Suddhoo, near the Taksali Gate, is two 
storied, with four carved windows of old brown wood, 
and a flat roof. You may recognize it by five red hand- 
prints arranged like the Five of Diamonds on the white- 
wash between the upper windows. Bhagwan Dass, the 
bunnia, and a man who says he gets his living by seal- 
cutting live in the lower story with a troop of wives, serv- 
ants, friends, and retainers. The two upper rooms used 
to be occupied by Janoo and Azizun and a little black- 
and-tan terrier that was stolen from an Englishman’s house 
and given to Janoo by a soldier. To-day, only Janoo 
lives in the upper rooms. Suddhoo sleeps on the roof 
generally, except when he sleeps in the street. He used 
to go to Peshawar in the cold weather to visit his son, who 
sells curiosities near the Edwardes’ Gate, and then he 
slept under a real mud roof. Suddhoo is a great friend 
of mine, because his cousin had a son who secured, thanks 
to my recommendation, the post of head messenger to a 
big firm in the Station. Suddhoo says that God will make 

28 


Rudyard Kipling 


me a Lieutenant-Governor one of these days. I daresay 
his prophecy will come true. He is very, very old, with 
white hair and no teeth worth showing, and he has out- 
lived his wits—outlived nearly everything except his fond- 
ness for his son at Peshawar. Janoo and Azizun are Kash- 
miris, Ladies of the City, and theirs was an ancient and 
more or less honorable profession; but Azizun has since 
married a medical student from the Northwest and has 
settled down to a most respectable life somewhere near 
Bareilly. Bhagwan Dass is an extortionate and an adul- 
terator. He is very rich. The man who is supposed to 
get his living by seal cutting pretends to be very poor. 
This lets you know as much as is necessary of the four 
principal tenants in the house of Suddhoo. Then there 
is Me, of course; but I am only the chorus that comes in 
at the end to explain things. So I do not count. 

Suddhoo was not clever. The man who pretended to 
cut seals was the cleverest of them all—Bhagwan Dass 
only knew how to lie—except Janoo. She was also beau- 
tiful, but that was her own affair. 

Suddhoo’s son at Peshawar was attacked by pleurisy, 
and old Suddhoo was troubled. The seal-cutter man heard 
of Suddhoo’s anxiety and made capital out of it. He was 
abreast of the times. He got a friend in Peshawar to tele- 
graph daily accounts of the son’s health. And here the 
story begins. 

Suddhoo’s cousin’s son told me, one evening, that Sud- 
dhoo wanted to see me; that he was too old and feeble 
to come personally, and that I should be conferring an 
everlasting honor on the House of Suddhoo if I went to 
him. I went; but I think, seeing how well off Suddhoo was 
then, that he might have sent something better than an 
ekka, which jolted fearfully, to haul out a future Lieutenant- 
Governor to the City on a muggy April evening. The ekka 
did not run quickly. It was full dark when we pulled up 
opposite the door of Ranjit Singh’s Tomb near the main 
gate of the Fort. Here was Suddhoo and he said that by 
reason of my condescension, it was absolutely certain that 


29 


English Mystery Stories 


I should become a Lieutenant-Governor while my hair was 
yet black. Then we talked about the weather and the state 
of my health, and the wheat crops, for fifteen minutes, in 
the Huzuri Bagh, under the stars. 

Suddhoo came to the point at last. He said that Janoo 
had told him that there was an order of the Sirkar against 
magic, because it was feared that magic might one day 
kill the Empress of India. I didn’t know anything about 
the state of the law; but I fancied that something interest- 
ing was going to happen. I said that so far from magic 
being discouraged by the Government it was highly com- 
mended. The greatest officials of the State practiced it 
themselves. (If the Financial Statement isn’t magic, I 
don’t know what is.) Then, to encourage him further, I 
said that, if there was any jadoo afoot, I had not the least 
objection to giving it my countenance and sanction, and 
to seeing that it was clean jadoo—white magic, as dis- 
tinguished from the unclean jadoo which kills folk. It 
took a long time before Suddhoo admitted that this was 
just what he had asked me to come for. Then he told 
me, in jerks and quavers, that the man who said he cut 
seals was a sorcerer of the cleanest kind; that every day 
he gave Suddhoo news of his sick son in Peshawar more 
quickly than the lightning could fly, and that this news 
was always corroborated by the letters. Further, that he 
had told Suddhoo how a great danger was threatening 
his son, which could be removed by clean jadoo; and, of 
course, heavy payment. I began to see exactly how the 
land lay, and told Suddhoo that J also understood a little 
jadoo in the Western line, and would go to his house to see 
that everything was done decently and in order. We set 
off together; and on the way Suddhoo told me that he had 
paid the seal cutter between one hundred and two hun- 
dred rupees already; and the jadoo of that night would cost 
two hundred more. Which was cheap, he said, consider- 
ing the greatness of his son’s danger; but I do not think 
he meant it. 

The lights were all cloaked in the front of the house 


30 


Rudyard Kipling 


when we arrived. I could hear awful noises from behind 
the seal cutter’s shop front, as if some one were groaning 
his soul out. Suddhoo shook all over, and while we groped 
our way upstairs told me that the jadoo had begun. Janoo 
and Azizun met us at the stair head, and told us that the 
jadoo work was coming off in their rooms, because there 
was more space there. Janoo is a lady of a freethinking 
turn of mind. She whispered that the jadoo was an in- 
vention to get money out of Suddhoo, and that the seal 
cutter would go to a hot place when he died. Suddhoo 
was nearly crying with fear and old age. He kept walking 
up and down the room in the half light, repeating his son’s 
name over and over again, and asking Azizun if the seal 
cutter ought not to make a reduction in the case of his 
own landlord. Janoo pulled me over to the shadow in the 
recess of the carved bow-windows. The boards were up, 
and the rooms were only lit by one tiny oil lamp. There 
was no chance of my being seen if I stayed still. 

Presently, the groans below ceased, and we heard steps 
on the staircase. That was the seal cutter. He stopped 
outside the door as the terrier barked and Azizun fumbled 
at the chain, and he told Suddhoo to blow out the lamp. 
This left the place in jet darkness, except for the red glow 
from the two hugqas that belonged to Janoo and Azizun. 
The seal cutter came in, and I heard Suddhoo throw him- 
self down on the floor and groan. Azizun caught her breath, 
and Janoo backed on to one of the beds with a shudder. 
There was a clink of something metallic, and then shot 
up a pale blue-green flame near the ground. The light 
was just enough to show Azizun, pressed against one 
corner of the room with the terrier between her knees; 
Janoo, with her hands clasped, leaning forward as she sat 
on the bed; Suddhoo, face down, quivering, and the seal 
cutter. 

I hope I may never see another man like that seal cut- 
ter. He was stripped to the waist, with a wreath of white 
jasmine as thick as my wrist round his forehead, a salmon- 
colored loin-cloth round his middle, and a steel bangle on 


31 


English Mystery Stories 


each ankle. This was not awe-inspiring. It was the face 
of the man that turned me cold. It was blue-gray in the 
first place. In the second, the eyes were rolled back till 
you could only see the whites of them; and, in the third, 
the face was the face of a demon—a ghoul—anything 
you please except of the sleek, oily old ruffian who sat 
in the daytime over his turning-lathe downstairs. He was 
lying on his stomach with his arms turned and crossed 
behind him, as if he had been thrown down pinioned. His 
head and neck were the only parts of him off the floor. 
They were nearly at right angles to the body, like the 
head of a cobra at spring. It was ghastly. In the center 
of the room, on the bare earth floor, stood a big, deep, 
brass basin, with a pale blue-green light floating in the 
center like a night-light. Round that basin the man on 
the floor wriggled himself three times. How he did it I 
do not know. I could see the muscles ripple along his 
spine and fall smooth again; but I could not see any other 
motion. The head seemed the only thing alive about him, 
except that slow curl and uncurl of the laboring back 
muscles. Janoo from the bed was breathing seventy to 
the minute; Azizun held her hands before her eyes; and 
old Suddhoo, fingering at the dirt that had got into his 
white beard, was crying to himself. The horror of it was 
that the creeping, crawly thing made no sound—only 
crawled! And, remember, this lasted for ten minutes, while 
the terrier whined, and Azizun shuddered, and Janoo 
gasped and Suddhoo cried. 

I felt the hair lift at the back of my head, and my heart 
thump like a thermantidote paddle. Luckily, the seal 
cutter betrayed himself by his most impressive trick and 
made me calm again. After he had finished that unspeak- 
able crawl, he stretched his head away from the floor as 
high as he could, and sent out a jet of fire from his nos- 
trils. Now I knew how fire-spouting is done—I can do 
it myself—so I felt at ease. The business was a fraud. 
If he had only kept to that crawl without trying to 
raise the effect, goodness knows what I might not have 


32 


Rudyard Kipling 


thought. Both the girls shrieked at the jet of fire, and 
the head dropped, chin down on the floor, with a thud; the 
whole body lying then like a corpse with its arms trussed. 
There was a pause of five full minutes after this, and the 
blue-green flame died down. Janoo stooped to settle one 
of her anklets, while Azizun turned her face to the wall 
and took the terrier in her arms. Suddhoo put out an 
arm mechanically to Janoo’s huga, and she slid it across 
the floor with her foot. Directly above the body and on 
the wall were a couple of flaming portraits, in stamped 
paper frames, of the Queen and the Prince of Wales. They 
looked down on the performance, and, to my thinking, 
seemed to heighten the grotesqueness of it all. 

Just when the silence was getting unendurable, the body 
turned over and rolled away from the basin to the side of 
the room, where it lay stomach up. There was a faint 
“plop ” from the basin—exactly like the noise a fish makes 
when it takes a fly—and the green light in the center re- 
vived. 

I looked at the basin, and saw, bobbing in the water 
the dried, shriveled, black head of a native baby—open 
eyes, open mouth and shaved scalp. It was worse, being 
so very sudden, than the crawling exhibition. We had 
no time to say anything before it began to speak. 

Read Poe’s account of the voice that came from the 
mesmerized dying man, and you will realize less than one 
half of the horror of that head’s voice. 

There was an interval of a second or two between each 
word, and a sort of “ring, ring, ring,” in the note of the 
voice like the timbre of a bell. It pealed slowly, as if talk- 
ing to itself, for several minutes before I got rid of my 
cold sweat. Then the blessed solution struck me. I looked 
at the body lying near the doorway, and saw, just where 
the hollow of the throat joins on the shoulders, a muscle 
that had nothing to do with any man’s regular breathing, 
twitching away steadily. The whole thing was a careful 
reproduction of the Egyptian teraphin that one reads about 
sometimes; and the voice was as clever and as appalling 


33 


English Mystery Stortes 


a piece of ventriloquism as one could wish to hear. All 
this time the head was “ lip-lip-lapping ” against the side 
of the basin, and speaking. It told Suddhoo, on his face 
again whining, of his son's illness and of the state of the 
illness up to the evening of that very night. I always shall 
respect the seal cutter for keeping so faithfully to the 
time of the Peshawar telegrams. It went on to say that 
skilled doctors were night and day watching over the man’s 
life; and that he would eventually recover if the fee to the 
potent sorcerer, whose servant was the head in the basin, 
were doubled. 

Here the mistake from the artistic point of view came 
in. To ask for twice your stipulated fee in a voice that 
Lazarus might have used when he rose from the dead, is 
absurd. Janoo, who is really a woman of masculine intel- 
lect, saw this as quickly as I did. I heard her say “ Ash 
nahin! Fareib!” scornfully under her breath; and just as — 
she said so, the light in the basin died out, the head stopped 
talking, and we heard the room door creak on its hinges. 
Then Janoo struck a match, lit the lamp, and we saw that 
head, basin, and seal cutter were gone. Suddhoo was 
wringing his hands and explaining to anyone who cared 
to listen, that, if his chances of eternal salvation depended 
on it, he could not raise another two hundred rupees. 
Azizun was nearly in hysterics in the corner; while Janoo 
sat down composedly on one of the beds to discuss the 
probabilities of the whole thing being a bunao, or “ make- 
Up. 

I explained as much as I knew of the seal cutter’s way 
of jadoo; but her argument was much more simple:— 
“The magic that is always demanding gifts is no true 
magic,” said she. “ My mother told me that the only potent 
love spells are those which are told you for love. This 
seal cutter man is a liar and a devil. I dare not tell, do 
anything, or get anything done, because I am in debt to 
Bhagwan Dass the bunnia for two gold rings and a heavy 
anklet. I must get my food from his shop. The seal cutter 
is the friend of Bhagwan Dass, and he would poison my 


34 


Rudyard Kipling 


food. A fool’s jadoo has been going on for ten days, and 
has cost Suddhoo many rupees each night. The seal cutter 
used black hens and lemons and mantras before. He never 
showed us anything like this till to-night. Azizun is a fool, 
and will be a pur dahnashin soon. Suddhoo has lost his 
strength and his wits. See now! I had hoped to get from 
Suddhoo many rupees while he lived, and many more 
after his death; and behold, he is spending everything 
on that offspring of a devil and a she-ass, the seal 
cutter!” 

Here I said: “ But what induced Suddhoo to drag me 
into the business? Of course J can speak to the seal cutter, 
and he shall refund. The whole thing is child’s talk— 
shame—and senseless.” 

“‘ Suddhoo is an old child,” said Janoo. “ He has lived 
on the roofs these seventy years and is as senseless as 
a milch goat. He brought you here to assure himself that 
he was not breaking any law of the Sirkar, whose salt he 
ate many years ago. He worships the dust off the feet 
of the seal cutter, and that cow devourer has forbidden 
him to go and see his son. What does Suddhoo know of 
your laws or the lightning post? I have to watch his money 
going day by day to that lying beast below.” 

Janoo stamped her foot on the floor and nearly cried 
with vexation; while Suddhoo was whimpering under a 
blanket in the corner, and Azizun was trying to guide 
the pipe-stem to his foolish old mouth. 


Now the case stands thus. Unthinkingly, I have laid 
myself open to the charge of aiding and abetting the 
seal cutter in obtaining money under false pretenses, which 
is forbidden by Section 420 of the Indian Penal Code. 
I am helpless in the matter for these reasons, I cannot 
inform the police. What witnesses would support my 
statements? Janoo refuses flatly, and Azizun is a veiled 
woman somewhere near Bareilly—lost in this big India 
of ours. I dare not again take the law into my own hands, 
and speak to the seal cutter; for certain am I that, not 


35 


English Mystery Stories 


only would Suddhoo disbelieve me, but this step would 
end in the poisoning of Janoo, who is bound hand and 
foot by her debt to the bunnia. Suddhoo is an old dotard; 
and whenever we meet. mumbles my idiotic joke that the 
Sirkar rather patronizes the Black Art than otherwise. His 
son is well now; but Suddhoo is completely under the in- 
fluence of the seal cutter, by whose advice he regulates 
the affairs of his life. Janoo watches daily the money that 
she hoped to wheedle out of Suddhoo taken by the seal 
cutter, and becomes daily more furious and sullen. 

She will never tell, because she dare not; but, unless 
something happens to prevent her, I am afraid that the 
seal cutter will die of cholera—the white arsenic kind— 
about the middle of May. And thus I shall have to be 
privy to a murder in the house of Suddhoo. 


His Wedded Wife 


Cry ‘‘Murder!”’ in the market-place, and each 
Will turn upon his neighbor anxious eyes 
That ask:—‘‘Art thou the man?’’ We hunted Cain 
Some centuries ago, across the world, 
That bred the fear our own misdeeds maintain 
To-day. 
—Vubart’s Moralities. 


SHAKESPEARE Says something about worms, or it may 
be giants or beetles, turning if you tread on them too 
severely. The safest plan is never to tread on a worm— 
not even on the last new subaltern from Home, with his 
buttons hardly out of their tissue paper, and the red of 
sappy English beef in his cheeks. This is the story of the 
worm that turned. For the sake of brevity, we will call 
Henry Augustus Ramsay Faizanne, “ The Worm,” although 
he really was an exceedingly pretty boy, without a hair on 
his face, and with a waist like a girl’s, when he came out 
to the Second “ Shikarris”” and was made unhappy in sev- 

36 


Rudyard Kipling 


eral ways. The “ Shikarris” are a high-caste regiment, 
and you must be able to do things well—play a banjo, or 
ride more than little, or sing, or act—to get on with them. 

The Worm did nothing except fall off his pony, and 
knock chips out of gate posts with his trap. Even that 
became monotonous after a time. He objected to whist, 
cut the cloth at billiards, sang out of tune, kept very much 
to himself, and wrote to his Mamma and sisters at Home. 
Four of these five things were vices which the “ Shikarris ” 
objected to and set themselves to eradicate. Everyone 
knows how subalterns are, by brother subalterns, softened 
and not permitted to be ferocious. It is good and whole- 
some, and does no one any harm, unless tempers are lost; 
and then there is trouble. There was a man once—but that 
is another story. 

The “ Shikarris ” shikarred The Worm very much, and 
he bore everything without winking. He was so good and 
so anxious to learn, and flushed so pink, that his education 
was cut short, and he was left to his own devices by every- 
one except the Senior Subaltern who continued to make 
life a burden to The Worm. The Senior Subaltern meant 
no harm; but his chaff was coarse, and he didn’t quite un- 
derstand where to stop. He had been waiting too long for 
his Company; and that always sours a man. Also he was 
in love, which made him worse. 

One day, after he had borrowed The Worm’s trap for 
a lady who never existed, had used it himself all the after- 
noon, had sent a note to The Worm, purporting to come 
from the lady, and was telling the Mess all about it, The 
Worm rose in his place and said, in his quiet, ladylike 
voice :—‘‘ That was a very pretty sell; but I'll lay you a 
month’s pay to a month’s pay when you get your step, 
that I work a sell on you that you’ll remember for the rest 
of your days, and the Regiment after you when you're 
dead or broke.” The Worm wasn’t angry in the least, and 
the rest of the Mess shouted. Then the Senior Subaltern 
looked at The Worm from the boots upward, and down 
again and said: “ Done, Baby.” The Worm took the rest 


37 


English Mystery Stories 


of the Mess to witness that the bet had been taken, and 
retired into a book with a sweet smile. 

Two months passed, and the Senior Subaltern still edu- 
cated The Worm, who began to move about a little more 
as the hot weather came on. I have said that the Senior 
Subaltern was in love. The curious thing is that a girl 
was in love with the Senior Subaltern. Though the Colonel 
said awful things, and the Majors snorted, and married 
Captains looked unutterable wisdom, and the juniors 
scoffed, those two were engaged. 

The Senior Subaltern was so pleased with getting his 
Company and his acceptance at the same time that he for- 
got to bother The Worm. The girl was a pretty girl, and 
had money of her own. She does not come into this story 
at all. 

One night, at beginning of the hot weather, all the Mess, 
except The Worm who had gone to his own room to write 
Home letters, were sitting on the platform outside the Mess 
House. The Band had finished playing, but no one wanted 
to go in. And the Captains’ wives were there also. The 
folly of a man in love is unlimited. The Senior Subaltern 
had been holding forth on the merits of the girl he was en- 
gaged to, and ihe ladies were purring approval, while the 
men yawned, when there was a rustle of skirts in the dark, 
and a tired, faint voice lifted itself. 

“Where’s my husband?” 

I do not wish in the least to reflect on the morality of the 
“ Shikarris ”; but it is on record that four men jumped up 
as if they had been shot. Three of them were married men. 
Perhaps they were afraid that their wives had come from 
Home unbeknownst. The fourth said that he had acted on 
the impulse of the moment. He explained this afterwards. 

Then the voice cried: “Oh Lionel!” Lionel was the 
Senior Subaltern’s name. A woman came into the little 
circle of light by the candles on the peg tables, stretching 
out her hands to the dark where the Senior Subaltern was, 
and sobbing. We rose to our feet, feeling that things were 
going to happen and ready to believe the worst. In this 

38 


Rudyard Kipling 


bad, small world of ours, one knows so little of the life of 
the next man—which, after all, is entirely his own concern 
—that one is not surprised when a crash comes. Anything 
might turn up any day for anyone. Perhaps the Senior 
Subaltern had been trapped in his youth. Men are crippled 
that way occasionally. We didn’t know; we wanted to 
hear; and the Captains’ wives were as anxious as we. If 
he had been trapped, he was to be excused; for the woman 
from nowhere, in the dusty shoes and gray traveling dress, 
was very lovely, with black hair and great eyes full of 
tears. She was tall, with a fine figure, and her voice had 
a running sob in it pitiful to hear. As soon as the Senior 
Subaltern stood up, she threw her arms round his neck, 
and called him “my darling” and said she could not bear 
waiting alone in England, and his letters were so short and 
cold, and she was his to the end of the world, and would he 
forgive her? This did not sound quite like a lady’s way 
of speaking. It was too demonstrative. 

Things seemed black indeed, and the Captains’ wives 
peered under their eyebrows at the Senior Subaltern, and 
the Colonel’s face set like the Day of Judgment framed in 
gray bristles, and no one spoke for a while. 

Next the Colonel said, very shortly: “ Well, sir?” and 
the woman sobbed afresh. The Senior Subaltern was half 
choked with the arms round his neck, but he gasped out: 
“Tt’s a d—d lie! I never had a wife in my life!” “ Don’t 
swear,” said the Colonel. ‘‘ Come into the Mess. We must 
sift this clear somehow,” and he sighed to himself, for he 
believed in his “ Shikarris,” did the Colonel. 

We trooped into the anteroom, under the full lights, and 
there we saw how beautiful the woman was. She stood 
up in the middle of us all, sometimes choking with crying, 
then hard and proud, and then holding out her arms to the 
Senior Subaltern. It was like the fourth act of a tragedy. 
She told us how the Senior Subaltern had married her when 
he was Home on leave eighteen months before; and she 
seemed to know all that we knew, and more too, of his 
people and his past life. He was white and ashy gray, try- 


39 


English Mystery Stories 


ing now and again to break into the torrent of her words; 
and we, noting how lovely she was and what a criminal he 
looked, esteemed him a beast of the worst kind. We felt 
sorry for him, though. 

I shall never forget the indictment of the Senior Subal- 
tern by his wife. Nor will he. It was so sudden, rushing 
out of the dark, unannounced, into our dull lives. The 
Captains’ wives stood back; but their eyes were alight, and 
you could see that they had already convicted and sentenced 
the Senior Subaltern. The Colonel seemed five years older. 
One Major was shading his eyes with his hand and watch- 
ing the woman from underneath it. Another was chewing 
his mustache and smiling quietly as if he were witnessing 
a play. Full in the open space in the center, by the whist 
tables, the Senior Subaltern’s terrier was hunting for fleas. 
I remember all this as clearly as though a photograph were 
in my hand. I remember the look of horror on the Senior 
Subaltern’s face. It was rather like seeing a man hanged; 
but much more interesting. Finally, the woman wound up 
by saying that the Senior Subaltern carried a double F. M. 
in tattoo on his left shoulder. We all knew that, and to our 
innocent minds it seemed to clinch the matter. But one of 
‘the Bachelor Majors said very politely: “I presume that 
your marriage certificate would be more to the purpose?” 

That roused the woman. She stood up and sneered at 
the Senior Subaltern for a cur, and abused the Major and 
the Colonel and all the rest. Then she wept, and then she 
pulled a paper from her breast, saying imperially: “ Take 
that! And let my husband—my lawfully wedded husband 
—read it aloud—if he dare! ” 

There was a hush, and the men looked into each other’s 
eyes as the Senior Subaltern came forward in a dazed and 
dizzy way, and took the paper. We were wondering, as we 
stared, whether there was anything against any one of us 
that might turn up later on. The Senior Subaltern’s throat 
was dry; but, as he ran his eye over the paper, he broke 
out into a hoarse cackle of relief, and said to the woman: 
“You young blackguard! ” 


40 


Rudyard .Kipling 


But the woman had fled through a door, and on the paper 
was written: “This is to certify that I, The Worm, have 
paid in full my debts to the Senior Subaltern, and, further, — 
that the Senior Subaltern is my debtor, by agreement on the 
23d of February, as by the Mess attested, to the extent of 
one month’s Captain’s pay, in the lawful currency of the 
India Empire.” 

Then a deputation set off for The Worm’s quarters and 
found him, betwixt and between, unlacing his stays, with 
the hat, wig, serge dress, etc., on the bed. He came over 
as he was, and the “ Shikarris ” shouted till the Gunners’ 
Mess sent over to know if they might have a share of the 
fun. I think we were all, except the Colonel and the Senior 
Subaltern, a little disappointed that the scandal had come 
to nothing. But that is human nature. There could be 
no two words about The Worm’s acting. It leaned as near 
to a nasty tragedy as anything this side of a joke can. 
When most of the Subalterns sat upon him with sofa cush- 
ions to find out why he had not said that acting was his 
strong point, he answered very quietly: “I don’t think you 
ever asked me. I used to act at Home with my sisters.” 
But no acting with girls could account for The Worm’s 
display that night. Personally, I think it was in bad taste. 
Besides being dangerous. There is no sort of use in play- 
ing with fire, even for fun. 

The “ Shikarris ’ made him President of the Regimental 
Dramatic Club; and, when the Senior Subaltern paid up 
his debt, which he did at once, The Worm sank the money 
in scenery and dresses. He was a good Worm; and the 
“ Shikarris” are proud of him. The only drawback is that 
he has been christened “ Mrs. Senior Subaltern”; and, as 
there are now two Mrs. Senior Subailterns in the Station, 
this is sometimes confusing to strangers. 

Later on, I will tell you of a case something like this, but 
with all the jest left out and nothing in it but real trouble. 


41 


A. Conan Doyle 
AA Case of Identity 


#6 MY dear fellow,’ said Sherlock Holmes, as we sat on 

either side of the fire in his lodgings at Baker Street, 
“life is infinitely stranger than anything which the mind 
of man can invent. We would not dare to conceive the 
things which are really mere commonplaces of existence. 
If we could fly out of that window hand in hand, hover 
over this great city, gently remove the roofs, and peep in 
at the queer things which are going on, the strange coin-- 
cidences, the plannings, the cross-purposes, the wonderful 
chains of events, working through generations, and leading 
to the most outré results, it would make all fiction, with 
its conventionalities and foreseen conclusions, most stale 
and unprofitable.” 

“And yet I am not convinced of it,” I answered. “ The 
cases which come to light in the papers are, as a rule, bald 
enough, and vulgar enough. We have in our police reports 
realism pushed to its extreme limits, and yet the result is, 
it must be confessed, neither fascinating nor artistic.” 

“A certain selection and discretion must be used in pro- 
ducing a realistic effect,” remarked Holmes. “ This is want- 
ing in the police report, where more stress is laid perhaps 
upon the platitudes of the magistrate than upon the details, 
which to an observer contain the vital essence of the whole 
matter. Depend upon it, there is nothing so unnatural as 
the commonplace.” 

I smiled and shook my head. “I can quite understand 
your thinking so,” I said. ‘“ Of course, in your position 
of unofficial adviser and helper to everybody who is abso- 
lutely puzzled, throughout three continents, you are brought 
in contact with all that is strange and bizarre. But here ” 


42 


A, Conan Doyle 


—I picked up the morning paper from the ground— let 
us put it to a practical test. Here is the first heading upon 
which I come. ‘A husband’s cruelty to his wife.’ There 
is half a column of print, but I know without reading it 
that it is all perfectly familiar to me. There is, of course, 
the other woman, the drink, the push, the blow, the bruise, 
the unsympathetic sister or landlady. The crudest of writers 
could invent nothing more crude.” 

“Indeed your example is an unfortunate one for your 
argument,” said Holmes, taking the paper, and glancing 
his eye down it. “This is the Dundas separation case, 
and, as it happens, I was engaged in clearing up some small 
points in connection with it. The husband was a teetotaler, 
there was no other woman, and the conduct complained of 
was that he had drifted into the habit of winding up every 
meal by taking out his false teeth and hurling them at his 
wife, which you will allow is not an action likely to occur 
to the imagination of the average story teller. Take a pinch 
of snuff, doctor, and acknowledge that I have scored over 
you in your example.” 

He held out his snuffbox of old gold, with a great ame- 
thyst in the center of the lid. Its splendor was in such 
contrast to his homely ways and simple life that I could 
not help commenting upon it. 

“ Ah!” said he, “I forgot that I had not seen you for 
some weeks. It is a little souvenir from the King of Bo- 
hemia, in return for my assistance in the case of the Irene 
Adler papers.” 

“ And the ring?” I asked, glancing at a remarkable bril- 
liant which sparkled upon his finger. 

“It was from the reigning family of Holland, though 
the matter in which I served them was of such delicacy 
that I cannot confide it even to you, who have been good 
enough to chronicle one or two of my little problems.” 

“And have you any on hand just now?” I asked with 
interest. 

“Some ten or twelve, but none which present any fea- 
tures of interest. They are important, you understand, 


43 


Scotch Mystery Stories 


without being interesting. Indeed I have found that it is 
usually in unimportant matters that there is a field for 
the observation, and for the quick analysis of cause and 
effect which gives the charm to an investigation. The 
larger crimes are apt to be the simpler, for the bigger the 
crime, the more obvious, as a rule, is the motive. In these 
cases, save for one rather intricate matter which has been 
referred to me from Marseilles, there is nothing which pre- 
sents any features of interest. It is possible, however, that 
I may have something better before very many minutes 
are over, for this is one of my clients, or I am much mis- 
taken.” 

He had risen from his chair, and was standing between 
the parted blinds, gazing down into the dull, neutral-tinted 
London street. Looking over his shoulder, I saw that on 
the pavement opposite there stood a large woman with a 
heavy fur boa round her neck, and a large curling red 
feather in a broad-brimmed hat which was tilted in a co- 
quettish Duchess-of-Devonshire fashion over her ear. 

From under this great panoply she peeped up in a ner- 
vous, hesitating fashion at our windows, while her body 
oscillated backward and forward, and her fingers fidgeted 
with her glove buttons. Suddenly, with a plunge, as of the 
swimmer who leaves the bank, she hurried across the road, 
and we heard the sharp clang of the bell. 

“JT have seen those symptoms before,” said Holmes, 
throwing his cigarette into the fire. “ Oscillation upon the 
pavement always means an affaire de coeur. She would 
like advice, but is not sure that the matter is not too deli- 
cate for communication. And yet even here we may dis- 
criminate. When a woman has been seriously wronged by 
a man, she no longer oscillates, and the usual symptom is 
a broken bell wire. Here we may take it that there is a 
love matter, but that the maiden is not so much angry as 
perplexed or grieved. But here she comes in person to 
resolve our doubts.” 

As he spoke, there was a tap at the door, and the boy 
in buttons entered to announce Miss Mary Sutherland, while 


44 


A. Conan Doyle 


the lady herself loomed behind his small black figure like 
a full-sailed merchantman behind a tiny pilot boat. Sher- 
lock Holmes welcomed her with the easy courtesy for which 
he was remarkable, and having closed the door, and bowed 
her into an armchair, he looked her over in the minute and 
yet abstracted fashion which was peculiar to him. 

“Do you not find,” he said, “that with your short sight 
it is a little trying to do so much typewriting? ” 

“T did at first,” she answered, “ but now I know where 
the letters are without looking.” Then, suddenly realizing 
the full purport of his words, she gave a violent start, and 
looked up with fear and astonishment upon her broad, good- 
humored face. “ You’ve heard about me, Mr. Holmes,” she 
cried, “else how could you know all that?” 

“Never mind,” said Holmes, laughing, “it is my busi- 
ness to know things. Perhaps I have trained myself to 
see what others overlook. If not, why should you come 
to consult me?” 

“T came to you, sir, because I heard of you from Mrs. 
Etherege, whose husband you found so easily when the 
police and everyone had given him up for dead. Oh, Mr. 
Holmes, I wish you would do as much for me. I’m 
not rich, but still I have a hundred a year in my own 
right, besides the little that I make by the machine, and 
I would give it all to know what has become of Mr. 
Hosmer Angel.” 

“Why did you come away to consult me in such a 
hurry?” asked Sherlock Holmes, with his finger tips to- 
gether, and his eyes to the ceiling. 

Again a startled look came over the somewhat vacuous 
face of Miss Mary Sutherland. “ Yes, I did bang out of 
the house,” she said, “for it made me angry to see the 
easy way in which Mr. Windibank—that is, my father— 
took it all. He would not go to the police, and he would 
not go to you, and so at last, as he would do nothing, and 
kept on saying that there was no harm done, it made me 
mad, and I just on with my things and came right away 
to you.” 


45 


Scotch Mystery Stories 


“Your father?” said Holmes. “ Your stepfather, surely, 
since the name is different.” 

“Yes, my stepfather. I call him father, though it sounds 
funny, too, for he is only five years and two months older 
than myself.” 

“And your mother is alive?” 

“Oh, yes ; mother is alive and well. I wasn’t best pleased, 
Mr. Holmes, when she married again so soon after father’s 
death, and a man who was nearly fifteen years younger 
than herself. Father was a plumber in the Tottenham Court 
Road, and he left a tidy business behind him, which mother 
carried on with Mr. Hardy, the foreman; but when Mr. 
Windibank came he made her sell the business, for he was 
very superior, being a traveler in wines. They got four 
thousand seven hundred for the good-will and interest, 
which wasn’t near as much as father could have got if he 
had been alive.” 

I had expected to see Sherlock Holmes impatient under 
this rambling and inconsequential narrative, but, on the con- 
trary, he had listened with the greatest concentration of 
attention. 

“Your own little income,” he asked, “ does it come out 
of the business?” 

“Oh, no, sir. It is quite separate, and was left me by 
my Uncle Ned in Auckland. It is in New Zealand stock, 
paying four and half per cent. Two thousand five hun- 
dred pounds was the amount, but I can only touch the 
interest.” 

“You interest me extremely,” said Holmes. “ And since 
you draw so large a sum as a hundred a year, with what you 
earn into the bargain, you no doubt travel a little, and in- 
dulge yourself in every way. I believe that a single lady 
can get on very nicely upon an income of about sixty 
pounds.” | 

“T could do with much less than that, Mr. Holmes, but 
you understand that as long as I live at home I don’t wish 
to be a burden to them, and so they have the use of the 
money just while I am staying with them. Of course that 

46 


bd 


A. Conan Doyle 


is only just for the time. Mr. Windibank draws my inter- 
est every quarter, and pays it over to mother, and I find 
that I can do pretty well with what I earn at typewriting. 
It brings me twopence a sheet, and I can often do from 
fifteen to twenty sheets in a day.” 

“You have made your position very clear to me,” said 
Holmes. “ This is my friend, Doctor Watson, before whom 
you can speak as freely as before myself. Kindly tell us 
now all about your connection with Mr. Hosmer Angel.” 

A flush stole over Miss Sutherland’s face, and she picked 
nervously at the fringe of her jacket. “I met him first at 
the gasfitters’ ball,’ she said. “ They used to send father 
tickets when he was alive, and then afterwards they remem- 
bered us, and sent them to mother. Mr. Windibank did not 
wish us to go. He never did wish us to go anywhere. He 
would get quite mad if I wanted so much as to join a Sun- 
day School treat. But this time I was set on going, and I 
would go, for what right had he to prevent? He said the 
folk were not fit for us to know, when all father’s friends 
were to be there. And he said that I had nothing fit to 
wear, when I had my purple plush that I had never so much 
as taken out of the drawer. At last, when nothing else 
would do, he went off to France upon the business of the 
firm; but we went, mother and I, with Mr. Hardy, who 
used to be our foreman, and it was there I met Mr. Hosmer 
Angel,” 

““T suppose,” said Holmes, “ that when Mr. Windibank 
came back from France, he was very annoyed at your having 
gone to the ball?” 

“Oh, well, he was very good about it. He laughed, I 
remember, and shrugged his shoulders, and said there was 
no use denying anything to a woman, for she would have 
her way.” 

“T see. Then at the gasfitters’ ball you met, as I under- 
stand, a gentleman called Mr. Hosmer Angel?” 

“Yes, sir. I met him that night, and he called next day 
to ask if we had got home all safe, and after that we met 
him—that is to say, Mr. Holmes, I met him twice for walks, 


47 


Scotch Mystery Stories 


but after that father came back again, and Mr. Hosmer 
Angel could not come to the house any more.” 

6é No? 33 

“Well, you know, father didn’t like anything of the sort. 
He wouldn’t have any visitors if he could help it, and he 
used to say that a woman should be happy in her own 
family circle. But then, as I used to say to mother, a woman 
wants her own circle to begin with, and I had not got mine 
yet,” 

“ But how about Mr. Hosmer Angel? Did he make no 
attempt to see you?” 

“Well, father was going off to France again in a week, 
and Hosmer wrote and said that it would be safer and 
better not to see each other until he had. gone. We could 
write in the meantime, and he used to write every day. 
I took the letters in the morning, so there was no need 
for father to know.” 

“Were you engaged to the gentleman at this time?” 

“Oh, yes, Mr. Holmes. We were engaged after the first 
walk that we took. Hosmer—Mr. Angel—was a cashier 
in an office in Leadenhall Street—and ie 

“What office?” 

“That’s the worst of it, Mr. Holmes; I don’t know.” 

“Where did he live, then?” 

“He slept on the premises.” 

“And you don’t know his address? ” 

“No—except that it was Leadenhall Street.” 

“Where did you address your letters, then? ” 

“To the Leadenhall Street Post Office, to be left till 
called for. He said that if they were sent to the office 
he would be chaffed by all the other clerks about having 
letters from a lady, so I offered to typewrite them, like 
he did his, but he wouldn’t have that, for he said that 
when I wrote them they seemed to come from me, but 
when they were typewritten he always felt that the ma- 
chine had come between us. That will just show you how 
fond he was of me, Mr. Holmes, and the little things that 
he would think of.” 


48 


A. Conan Doyle 


’ 


“Tt was most suggestive,” said Holmes. “It has long 
been an axiom of mine that the little things are infinitely 
the most important. Can you remember any other little 
things about Mr. Hosmer Angel?” 

“ He was a very shy man, Mr. Holmes. He would rather 
walk with me in the evening than in the daylight, for he 
said that he hated to be conspicuous. Very retiring and 
gentlemanly he was. Even his voice was gentle. He’d had 
the quinsy and swollen glands when he was young, he told 
me, and it had left him with a weak throat and a hesitat- 
ing, whispering fashion of speech. He was always well 
dressed, very neat and plain, but his eyes were weak, just 
as mine are, and he wore tinted glasses against the glare.” 

“Well, and what happened when Mr. Windibank, your 
stepfather, returned to France?” 

“ Mr. Hosmer Angel came to the house again, and pro- 
posed that we should marry before father came back. He 
was in dreadful earnest, and made me swear, with my hands 
on the Testament, that whatever happened I would always 
be true to him. Mother said he was quite right to make 
me swear, and that it was a sign of his passion. Mother 
was all in his favor from the first, and was even fonder 
of him than I was. Then, when they talked of marrying 
within the week, I began to ask about father ; but they both 
said never to mind about father, but just to tell him after- 
wards and mother said she would make it all right with 
him. I didn’t quite like that, Mr. Holmes. It seemed 
funny that I should ask his leave, as he was only a few 
years older than me; but I didn’t want to do anything on 
the sly, so I wrote to father at Bordeaux, where the com- 
pany has its French offices, but the letter came back to 
me on the very morning of the wedding.” 

“It missed him, then?” 

“Yes, sir, for he had started to England just before it 
arrived.” 

“Ha! that was unfortunate. Your wedding was ar- 
ranged, then, for the Friday. Was it to be in church?” 

“ Yes, sir, but very quietly. It was to be at St. Saviour’s, 


49 


Scotch Mystery Stories 


near King’s Cross, and we were to have breakfast after- 
wards at the St. Pancras Hotel. Hosmer came for us in 
a hansom, but as there were two of us, he put us both 
into it, and stepped himself into a four-wheeler, which hap- 
pened to be the only other cab in the street. We got to 
- the church first, and when the four-wheeler drove up we 
waited for him to step out, but he never did, and when the 
cabman got down from the box and looked, there was no 
one there! The cabman said that he could not imagine 
what had become of him, for he had seen him get in with 
his own eyes. That was last Friday, Mr. Holmes, and I 
have never seen or heard anything since then to throw 
any light upon what became of him.” 

“It seems to me that you have been very shamefully 
treated,” said Holmes. 

“Oh, no, sir! He was too good and kind to leave me 
so. Why, all the morning he was saying to me that, what- 
ever happened, I was to be true; and that even if 
something quite unforeseen occurred to separate us, I was 
always to remember that I was pledged to him, and that 
he would claim his pledge sooner or later. It seemed 
strange talk for a wedding morning, but what has happened 
since gives a meaning to it.” 

“Most certainly it does. Your own opinion is, then, 
that some unforeseen catastrophe has occurred to him?” 

“Yes, sir. I believe that he foresaw some danger, or 
else he would not have talked so. And then I think that 
what he foresaw happened.” 

“But you have no notion as to what it could have 
been?” 

One” 

“One more question. How did your mother take the 
matter?” 

“She was angry, and said that I was never to speak of 
the matter again.” | 

“And your father? Did you tell him?” 

“Yes, and he seemed to think, with me, that something 
had happened, and that I should hear of Hosmer again. 


50 


A. Conan Doyle 


As he said, what interest could anyone have in bringing 
me to the door of the church, and then leaving me? Now, 
if he had borrowed my money, or if he had married me 
and got my money settled on him, there might be some 
reason; but Hosmer was very independent about money, 
and never would look at a shilling of mine. And yet what 
could have happened? And why could he not write? Oh! 
it drives me half mad to think of, and I can’t sleep a wink 
at night.” She pulled a little handkerchief out of her muff, 
and began to sob heavily into it. 

“T shall glance into the case for you,” said Holmes, ris- 
ing, “and I have no doubt that we shall reach some definite 
result. Let the weight of the matter rest upon me now, 
and do not let your mind dwell upon it further. Above 
all, try to let Mr. Hosmer Angel vanish from your mem- 
ory, as he has done from your life.” 

“Then you don’t think [ll see him again?” 

oh fear t1Ot.” 

“Then what has happened to him?” | 

“ You will leave that question in my hands. I should 
like an accurate description of him, and any letters of his 
which you can spare.” 

“T advertised for him in last Saturday’s Chronicle,” said 
she. “ Here is the slip, and here are four letters from him.” 

“Thank you. And your address?” 

“ No. 31 Lyon Place, Camberwell.” 

“Mr. Angel’s address you never had, I understand. 
Where is your father’s place of business?” 

“ He travels for Westhouse & Marbank, the great claret 
importers of Fenchurch Street.” 

“Thank you. You have made your statement very 
clearly. You will leave the papers here, and remember 
the advice which I have given you. Let the whole inci- 
dent be a sealed book, and do not allow it to affect your 
life.” 

“You are very kind, Mr. Holmes, but I cannot do that. 
I shall be true to Hosmer. He shall find me ready when 
he comes back.” 


5I 


Scotch Mystery Stortes 


For all the preposterous hat and the vacuous face, there 
was something noble in the simple faith of our visitor 
which compelled our respect. She laid her little bundle 
of papers upon the table, and went her way, with a prom- 
ise to come again whenever she might be summoned. 

Sherlock Holmes sat silent for a few minutes with his 
finger tips still pressed together, his legs stretched out in 
front of him, and his gaze directed upward to the ceiling. 
Then he took down from the rack the old and oily clay 
pipe, which was to him as a counselor, and, having lighted 
it, he leaned back in his chair, with thick blue cloud wreaths 
spinning up from him, and a look of infinite languor in 
his face. 

“ Quite an interesting study, that maiden,” he observed. 
“T found her more interesting than her little problem, 
which, by the way, is rather a trite one. You will find 
parallel cases, if you consult my index, in Andover in ’77, 
and there was something of the sort at The Hague last 
year. Old as is the idea, however, there were one or two 
details which were new to me. But the maiden herself was 
most instructive.” 

“You appeared to read a good deal upon her which was 
quite invisible to me,” I remarked. 

“Not invisible, but unnoticed, Watson. You did not 
know where to look, and so you missed all that was 
important. I can never bring you to realize the impor- 
tance of sleeves, the suggestiveness of thumb nails, or 
the great issues that may hang from a boot lace. Now, 
what did you gather from that woman’s appearance? De- 
scribe it.” : 

“Well, she had a slate-colored, broad-brimmed straw 
hat, with a feather of a brickish red. Her jacket was black, 
with black beads sewed upon it and a fringe of little black 
jet ornaments. Her dress was brown, rather darker than 
coffee color, with a little purple plush at the neck and 
sleeves. Her gloves were grayish, and were worn through 
at the right forefinger. Her boots I didn’t observe. She 
had small round, hanging gold earrings, and a general air 


52 


A. Conan Doyle 


of being fairly well-to-do, in a vulgar, comfortable, easy- 
going way.” 

Sherlock Holmes clapped his hands softly together and 
chuckled. 

“*Pon my word, Watson, you are coming along won- 
derfully. You have really done very well indeed. It is 
true that you have missed everything of importance, but 
you have hit upon the method, and you have a quick eye 
for color. Never trust to general impressions, my boy, but 
concentrate yourself upon details. My first glance is al- 
ways at a woman’s sleeve. In a man it is perhaps better 
first to take the knee of the trouser. As you observe, this 
woman had plush upon her sleeve, which is a most useful 
material for showing traces. The double line a little above 
the wrist, where the typewritist presses against the table, 
was beautifully defined. The sewing machine, of the hand 
type, leaves a similar mark, but only on the left arm, and 
on the side of it farthest from the thumb, instead of being 
right across the broadest part, as this was. I then glanced 
at her face, and observing the dint of a pince-nez at either 
side of her nose, I ventured a remark upon short sight and 
typewriting, which seemed to surprise her.” 

“It surprised me.” 

“But, surely, it wds very obvious. I was then much 
surprised and interested on glancing down to observe that, 
though the boots which she was wearing were not unlike 
each other, they were really odd ones, the one having a 
slightly decorated toe cap and the other a plain one. One 
was buttoned only in the two lower buttons out of five, 
and the other at the first, third, and fifth. Now, when you 
see that a young lady, otherwise neatly dressed, has come 
away from home with odd boots, half-buttoned, it is no 
great deduction to say that she came away in a hurry.” 

“ And what else?” I asked, keenly interested, as I al- 
ways was, by my friend’s incisive reasoning. 

“T noted, in passing, that she had written a note before 
leaving home, but after being fully dressed. You observed 
that her right glove was torn at the forefinger, but you 


53 


Scotch Mystery Stories 


did not, apparently, see that both glove and finger were 
stained with violet ink. She had written in a hurry, and 
dipped her pen too deep. It must have been this morning, 
or the mark would not remain clear upon the finger. All 
this is amusing, though rather elementary, but I must go 
back to business, Watson. Would you mind reading me 
the advertised description of Mr. Hosmer Angel?” 

I held the little printed slip to the light. “ Missing,” 
it said, ‘‘on the morning of the fourteenth, a gentleman 
named Hosmer Angel. About five feet seven inches in 
height; strongly built, sallow complexion, black hair, a 
little bald in the center, bushy black side-whiskers and 
mustache; tinted glasses; slight infirmity of speech. Was 
dressed, when last seen, in black frock-coat faced with silk, 
black waistcoat, gold Albert chain, and gray Harris tweed 
trousers, with brown gaiters over elastic-sided boots. | 
Known to have been employed in an office in Leadenhall 
Street. Anybody bringing,” etc., etc. 

“That will do,’ said Holmes. ‘“ As to the letters,” he 
continued, glancing over them, “they are very common- 
place. Absolutely no clew in them to Mr. Angel, save that 
he quotes Balzac once. There is one remarkable point, 
however, which will no doubt strike you.” 

“They are typewritten,” I remarked. 

“Not only that, but the signature is typewritten. Look 
at the neat little ‘Hosmer Angel’ at the bottom. There 
is a date, you see, but no superscription except Leadenhall 
Street, which is rather vague. The point about the signa- 
ture is very suggestive—in fact, we may call it conclusive.” 

“Of what? ”’ 

“My dear fellow, is it possible you do not see how 
strongly it bears upon the case?” 

“TI cannot say that I do, unless it were that he wished 
to be able to deny his signature if an action for breach 
of promise were instituted.” 

“No, that was not the point. However, I shall write 
two letters which should settle the matter. One is to a 
firm in the City, the other is to the young lady’s stepfather, 


54 


A. Conan Doyle 


Mr. Windibank, asking him whether he could meet us 
here at six o’clock to-morrow evening. It is just as well 
that we should do business with the male relatives. And 
now, doctor, we can do nothing until the answers to those 
letters come, so we may put our little problem upon the 
shelf for the interim.” 

I had had so many reasons to believe in my friend’s 
subtle powers of reasoning, and extraordinary energy in 
action, that I felt that he must have some solid grounds 
for the assured and easy demeanor with which he treated 
the singular mystery which he had been called upon to 
fathom. Once only had I known him to fail, in the case 
of the King of Bohemia and the Irene Adler photo- 
graph, but when I looked back to the weird business of 
the “Sign of the Four,” and the extraordinary circum- 
stances connected with the “ Study in Scarlet,” I felt that 
it would be a strange tangle indeed which he could not 
unravel. 

I left him then, still puffing at his black clay pipe, with 
the conviction that when I came again on the next even- 
ing I would find that he held in his hands all the clews 
which would lead up to the identity of the disappearing 
bridegroom of Miss Mary Sutherland. 

A professional case of great gravity was engaging my 
own attention at the time, and the whole of next day I 
was busy at the bedside of the sufferer. It was not until 
close upon six o’clock that I found myself free, and was 
able to spring into a hansom and drive to Baker Street, 
half afraid that I might be too late to assist at the dénoue- 
ment of the little mystery. I found Sherlock Holmes alone, 
however, half asleep, with his long, thin form curled up 
in the recesses of his armchair. A formidable array of 
bottles and test-tubes, with the pungent, cleanly smell of 
hydrochloric acid, told me that he had spent his day in 
the chemical work which was so dear to him. 

“Well, have you solved it?” I asked as I entered. 

“Yes. It was the bisulphate of baryta.” 

“No, no; the mystery!” I cried. 


55 


Scotch Mystery Stories 


“Oh, that! I thought of the salt that I have been work- 
ing upon. There was never any mystery in the matter, 
though, as I said yesterday, some of the details are of in- 
terest. The only drawback is that there is no law, I fear, 
that can touch the scoundrel.” 

“Who was he, then, and what was his object in desert- 
ing Miss Sutherland?” 

The question was hardly out of my mouth, and Holmes 
had not yet opened his lips to reply, when we heard a 
heavy footfall in the passage, and a tap at the door. 

“This is the girl’s stepfather, Mr. James Windibank,” 
said Holmes. “ He has written to me to say that he would 
be here at six. Come in!” 

The man who entered was a sturdy, middle-sized fellow, 
some thirty years of age, clean shaven, and sallow-skinned, 
with a bland, insinuating manner, and a pair of wonder- 
fully sharp and penetrating gray eyes. He shot a ques- 
tioning glance at each of us, placed his shiny top hat upon 
the sideboard, and, with a slight bow, sidled down into the 
nearest chair. 

“Good evening, Mr. James Windibank,” said Holmes. 
“T think this typewritten letter is from you, in which you 
made an appointment with me for six o’clock?” 

Yes, sir Lan airaig. that Lam a little late, but bam 
not quite my own master, you know. I am sorry that Miss 
Sutherland has troubled you about this little matter, for 
I think it is far better not to wash linen of the sort in 
public. It was quite against my wishes that she came, but 
she is a very excitable, impulsive girl, as you may have 
noticed, and she is not easily controlled when she has made 
up her mind on a point. Of course, I did not mind you 
so much, as you are not connected with the official police, 
but it is not pleasant to have a family misfortune like this 
noised abroad. Besides, it is a useless expense, for how 
could you possibly find this Hosmer Angel? ” 

“On the contrary,” said Holmes, quietly, “I have every 
reason to believe that I will succeed in discovering Mr. 
Hosmer Angel.” 

56 


A. Conan Doyle 


Mr. Windibank gave a violent start, and dropped his 
gloves. “I am delighted to hear it,” he said. 

“Tt is a curious thing,’ remarked Holmes, “ that a type- 
writer has really quite as much individuality as a man’s 
handwriting. Unless they are quite new no two of them 
write exactly alike. Some letters get more worn than 
others, and some wear only on one side. Now, you re- 
mark in this note of yours, Mr. Windibank, that in every 
case there is some little slurring over the e, and a slight 
defect in the tail of the r. There are fourteen other char- 
acteristics, but those are the more obvious.” 

“We do all our correspondence with this machine at the 
office, and no doubt it is a little worn,” our visitor an- 
swered, glancing keenly at Holmes with his bright little 
eyes. 

“And now I will show you what is really a very inter- 
esting study, Mr. Windibank,’ Holmes continued. “TI 
think of writing another little monograph some of these 
days on the typewriter and its relation to crime. It is 
a subject to which I have devoted some little attention. 
I have here four letters which purport to come from the 
missing man. They are all typewritten. In each case, not 
only are the e’s slurred and the 7’s tailless, but you will 
observe, if you care to use my magnifying lens, that the 
fourteen other characteristics to which I have alluded are 
there as well.” 

Mr. Windibank sprung out of his chair, and picked up 
his hat. “I cannot waste time over this sort of fantastic 
talk, Mr. Holmes,” he said. “If you can catch the man, 
catch him, and let me know when you have done it.” 

“ Certainly,” said Holmes, stepping over and turning the 
key in the door. “I let you know, then, that I have caught 
him!” 

“What! where?” shouted Mr. Windibank, turning 
white to his lips, and glancing about him like a rat in a 
trap. 

“ Oh, it won’t do—really it won’t,” said Holmes, suavely. 
“There is no possible getting out of it, Mr. Windibank. 


57 


Scotch Mystery Stortes 


It is quite too transparent, and it was a very bad compli- 
ment when you said that it was impossible for me to solve 
so simple a question. That’s right! Sit down, and let us 
talk it over.” 

Our visitor collapsed into a chair, with a ghastly face, 
and a glitter of moisture on his brow. “ It—it’s not ac- 
tionable,” he stammered. 

“IT am very much afraid that it is not; but between our- 
selves, Windibank, it was as cruel, and selfish, and heart- 
less a trick in a petty way as ever came before me. Now, 
let me just run over the course of events, and you will 
contradict me if I go wrong.” 

The man sat huddled up in his chair, with his head sunk 
upon his breast, like one who is utterly crushed. Holmes 
stuck his feet up on the corner of the mantelpiece, and, 
leaning back with his hands in his pockets, began talking, 
rather to himself, as it seemed, than to us. 

“The man married a woman very much older than him- 
self for her money,” said he, “and he enjoyed the use of 
the money of the daughter as long as she lived with them. 
It was a considerable sum, for people in their position, and 
the loss of it would have made a serious difference. It 
was worth an effort to preserve it. The daughter was of 
a good, amiable disposition, but affectionate and warm- 
hearted in her ways, so that it was evident that with her 
fair personal advantages, and her little income, she would 
not be allowed to remain single long. Now her marriage 
would mean, of course, the loss of a hundred a year, so 
what does her stepfather do to prevent it? He takes the 
obvious course of keeping her at home, and forbidding her 
to seek the company of people of her own age. But soon 
he found that that would not answer forever. She became 
restive, insisted upon her rights, and finally announced her 
positive intention of going to a certain ball. What does 
her clever stepfather do then? He conceives an idea more 
creditable to his head than to his heart. With the con- 
nivance and assistance of his wife, he disguised himself, 
covered those keen eyes with tinted glasses masked the 

58 


A. Conan Doyle 


face with a mustache and a pair of bushy whiskers, sunk 
that clear voice into an insinuating whisper, and doubly 
secure on account of the girl’s short sight, he appears as 
Mr. Hosmer Angel, and keeps off other lovers by making 
love himself.” 

“It was only a joke at first,” groaned our visitor. “ We 
never thought that she would have been so carried away.” 

“Very likely not. However that may be, the young 
lady was very decidedly carried away, and having quite 
made up her mind that her stepfather was in France, the 
suspicion of treachery never for an instant entered her 
mind. She was flattered by the gentleman’s attentions, and 
the effect was increased by the loudly expressed admira- 
tion of her mother. Then Mr. Angel began to call, for it 
was obvious that the matter should be pushed as far as it 
would go, if a real effect were to be produced. There were 
meetings, and an engagement, which would finally secure 
the girl’s affections from turning toward anyone else. But 
the deception could not be kept up forever. These pre- 
tended journeys to France were rather cumbrous. The 
thing to do was clearly to bring the business to an end in 
such a dramatic manner that it would leave a permanent 
impression upon the young lady’s mind, and prevent her 
from looking upon any other suitor for some time to come. 
Hence those vows of fidelity exacted upon a Testament, 
and hence also the allusions to a possibility of something 
happening on the very morning of the wedding. James 
Windibank wished Miss Sutherland to be so bound to Hos- 
mer Angel, and so uncertain as to his fate, that for ten 
years to come, at any rate, she would not listen to another 
man. As far as the church door he brought her, and then, 
as he could go no farther, he conveniently vanished away 
by the old trick of stepping in at one door of a four-wheeler 
and out at the other. I think that that was the chain of 
events, Mr. Windibank! ” 

Our visitor had recovered something of his assurance 
while Holmes had been talking, and he rose from his chair 
now with a cold sneer upon his pale face. 


59 


Scotch Mystery Stories 


“It may be so, or it may not, Mr. Holmes,” said he; 
“but if you are so very sharp you ought to be sharp 
enough to know. that it is you who are breaking the law 
now, and not me. I have done nothing actionable from 
the first, but as long as you keep that door locked you 
lay yourself open to an action for assault and illegal con- 
straint.” 

“ The law cannot, as you say, touch you,” said Holmes, 
unlocking and throwing open the door, “ yet there never 
was a man who deserved punishment more. If the young 
lady has a brother or a friend, he ought to lay a whip 
across your shoulders. By Jove!” he continued, flushing 
up at the sight of the bitter sneer upon the man’s face, 
“it is not part of my duties to my client, but here’s a 
hunting crop handy, and I think I shall just treat myself 
to—” He took two swift steps to the whip, but before 
he could grasp it there was a wild clatter of steps upon 
the stairs, the heavy hall door banged, and from the win- 
dow we could see Mr. James Windibank running at the 
top of his speed down the road. 

“There’s a cold-blooded scoundrel!” said Holmes, 
laughing as he threw himself down into his chair once 
more. “ That fellow will rise from crime to crime until he 
does something very bad and ends on a gallows. The case 
has, in some respects, been not entirely devoid of interest.” 

“TI cannot now entirely see all the steps of your reason- 
ing,” I remarked. 

“Well, of course it was obvious from the first that this 
Mr. Hosmer Angel must have some strong object for his 
curious conduct, and it was equally clear that the only man 
who really profited by the incident, as far as we could see, 
was the stepfather. Then the fact that the two men were 
never together, but that the one always appeared when the 
other was away, was suggestive. So were the tinted spec- 
tacles and the curious voice, which both hinted at a dis- 
guise, as did the bushy whiskers. My suspicions were all 
confirmed by his peculiar action in typewriting his signa~ 
ture, which, of course, inferred that his handwriting was 


60 


A. Conan Doyle 


so familiar to her that she would recognize even the smallest 
sample of it. You see all these isolated facts, together with 
many minor ones, all pointed in the same direction.” 

“ And how did you verify them?” 

“ Having once spotted my man, it was easy to get cor- 
roboration. I knew the firm for which this man worked. 
Having taken the printed description, I eliminated every- 
thing from it which could be the result of a disguise,—the 
whiskers, the glasses, the voice,—and I sent it to the firm 
with a request that they would inform me whether it an- 
swered to the description of any of their travelers. I had 
already noticed the peculiarities of the typewriter, and I 
wrote to the man himself at his business address, asking 
him if he would come here. As I expected, his reply was 
typewritten, and revealed the same trivial but characteristic 
defects. The same post brought me a letter from West- 
house & Marbank, of Fenchurch Street, to say that the 
description tallied in every respect with that of their em- 
ployee, James Windibank. Voila tout!” 

“And Miss Sutherland?” 

“Tf I tell her she will not believe me. You may re- 
member the old Persian saying, ‘There is danger for him 
who taketh the tiger cub, and danger also for whoso snatch- 
eth a delusion from a woman.’ There is as much sense in 
Hafiz as in Horace, and as much knowledge of the world.” 


A Scandal in Bohemia 
1 


To Sherlock Holmes she is always the woman. I have 
seldom heard him mention her under any other name. In 
his eyes she eclipses and predominates the whole of her 
sex. It was not that he felt any emotion akin to love for 
Irene Adler. All emotions, and that one particularly, were 
abhorrent to his cold, precise but admirably balanced mind. 

61 


Scotch Mystery Stories 


He was, I take it, the most perfect reasoning and observing 
machine that the world has seen; but as a lover, he would 
have placed himself in a false position. He never spoke 
of the softer passions, save with a gibe and a sneer. They 
were admirable things for the observer—excellent for draw- 
ing the veil from men’s motives and actions. But for the 
trained reasoner to admit such intrusions into his own deli- 
cate and finely adjusted temperament was to introduce a 
distracting factor which might throw a doubt upon all his 
mental results. Grit in a sensitive instrument, or a crack 
in one of his own high-power lenses, would not be more 
disturbing that a strong emotion in a nature such as his. 
And yet there was but one woman to him, and that woman 
was the late Irene Adler, of dubious and questionable 
memory. 

I had seen little of Holmes lately. My marriage had 
drifted us away from each other. My own complete happi- 
ness, and the home-centered interests which rise up around 
the man who first finds himself master of his own establish- 
ment, were sufficient to absorb all my attention; while 
Holmes, who loathed every form of society with his whole 
Bohemian soul, remained in our lodgings in Baker Street, 
buried among his old books, and alternating from week to 
week between cocaine and ambition, the drowsiness of the 
drug and the fierce energy of his own keen nature. He was 
still, as ever, deeply attracted by the study of crime, and 
occupied his immense faculties and extraordinary powers 
of observation in following out those clews, and clearing 
up those mysteries, which had been abandoned as hopeless 
by the official police. From time to time I heard some 
vague account of his doings; of his summons to Odessa 
in the case of the Trepoff murder, of his clearing up of the 
singular tragedy of the Atkinson brothers at Trincomalee, 
and finally of the mission which he had accomplished so 
delicately and successfully for the reigning family of Hol- 
land. Beyond these signs of his activity, however, which 
I merely shared with all the readers of the daily press, I 
knew little of my former friend and companion. 

62 


A. Conan Doyle 


One night—it was on the 2oth of March, 1888—I was 
returning from a journey to a patient (for I had now re- 
turned to civil practice), when my way led me through 
Baker Street. As I passed the well-remembered door, 
which must always be associated in my mind with my woo- 
ing, and with the dark incidents of the Study in Scarlet, I 
was seized with a keen desire to see Holmes again, and 
to know how he was employing his extraordinary powers. 
His rooms were brilliantly lighted, and even as I looked 
up, I saw his tall, spare figure pass twice in a dark silhouette 
against the blind. He was pacing the room swiftly, eagerly, 
with his head sunk upon his chest, and his hands clasped 
behind him. To me, who knew his every mood and habit, 
his attitude and manner told their own story. He was at 
work again. He had risen out of his drug-created dreams, 
and was hot upon the scent of some new problem. I rang 
the bell, and was shown up to the chamber which had for- 
merly been in part my own. 

His manner was not effusive. It seldom was; but he 
was glad, I think, to see me. With hardly a word spoken, 
but with a kindly eye, he waved me to an armchair, threw 
across his case of cigars, and indicated a spirit case anda 
gasogene in the corner. Then he stood before the fire, 
and looked me over in his singular introspective fashion. 

“Wedlock suits you,” he remarked. “I think, Watson, 
that you have put on seven and a half pounds since I saw 
you.” 

“ Seven,” I answered. 

“Indeed, I should have thought a little more. Just a 
trifle more, I fancy, Watson. And in practice again, I ob- 
serve. You did not tell me that you intended to go into 
harness.” | 

“Then how do you know?” 

“T see it, I deduce it. How do I know that you have 
been getting yourself very wet lately, and that you have 
a most clumsy and careless servant girl?” 

“My dear Holmes,” said I, “this is too much. You 
would certainly have been burned had you lived a few cen- 

63 


Scotch Mystery Stories 


turies ago. It is true that I had a country walk on Thurs- 
day and came home in a dreadful mess; but as I have 
changed my clothes, I can’t imagine how you deduce it. 
As to Mary Jane, she is incorrigible, and my wife has given 
her notice ; but there again I fail to see how you work it 
out.” 

He chuckled to himself and rubbed his long nervous 
hands together. 

“It is simplicity itself,’ said he, “ my eyes tell me that 
on the inside of your left shoe, just where the firelight 
strikes it, the leather is scored by six almost parallel cuts. 
Obviously they have been caused by some one who has 
very carelessly scraped round the edges of the sole in or- 
der to remove crusted mud from it. Hence, you see, my 
double deduction that you had been out in vile weather, 
and that you had a particularly malignant boot-slicking 
specimen of the London slavey. As to your practice, if a 
gentleman walks into my rooms, smelling of iodoform, with 
a black mark of nitrate of silver upon his right forefinger, 
and a bulge on the side of his top hat to show where he 
has secreted his stethoscope, I must be dull indeed if I do 
not pronounce him to be an active member of the medical 
profession.” 

I could not help laughing at the ease with which he 
explained his process of deduction. “When I hear you 
give your reasons,” I remarked, “the thing always appears 
to me so ridiculously simple that I could easily do it my- 
self, though at each successive instance of your reasoning 
I am baffled, until you explain your process. And yet, I 
believe that my eyes are as good as yours.” 

“ Quite so,” he answered, lighting a cigarette, and throw- 
ing himself down into an armchair. ‘‘ You see, but you 
do not observe. The distinction is clear. For example, 
‘you have frequently seen the steps which lead up from the 
hall to this room.” 

“ Frequently.” 

“ How often?” 

“Well, some hundreds of times.” 

64 


A. Conan Doyle 


“Then how many are there?” 

“ How many? I don’t know.” 

“Quite so! You have not observed. And yet you have 
seen. That is just my point. Now, I know there are sev- 
enteen steps, because I have both seen and observed. By 
the way, since you are interested in these little problems, 
and since you are good enough to chronicle one or two 
of my trifling experiences, you may be interested in this.” 
He threw over a sheet of thick pink-tinted note paper which 
had been lying open upon the table. “ It came by the last 
post,” said he. “ Read it aloud.” 

The note was undated, and without either signature or 
address. 

“There will call upon you to-night, at a quarter to eight 
o'clock,” it said, “a gentleman who desires to consult you 
upon a matter of the very deepest moment. Your recent 
services to one of the royal houses of Europe have shown 
that you are one who may safely be trusted with matters 
which are of an importance which can hardly be exag- 
gerated. This account of you we have from all quarters 
received. Be in your chamber, then, at that hour, and do 
not take it amiss if your visitor wears a mask.” 

“This is indeed a mystery,” I remarked. ‘“ What do you 
imagine that it means?” 

“T have no data yet. It is a capital mistake to theorize 
before one has data. Insensibly one begins to twist facts 
to suit theories, instead of theories to suit facts. But the 
note itseli—what do you deduce from it?” 

I carefully examined the writing, and the paper upon 
which it was written. 

“The man who wrote it was presumably well to do,” I 
remarked, endeavoring to imitate my companion’s proc- 
esses. “Such paper could not be bought under half a 
crown a packet. It is peculiarly strong and stiff.” 

“ Peculiar—that is the very word,” said Holmes. “It 
is not an English paper at all. Hold it up to the light.” 

I did so, and saw a large E with a small g, a P anda 
large G with a small ¢ woven into the texture of the paper. 

65 


Scotch Mystery Stortes 


“What do you make of that?” asked Holmes. 

“The name of the maker, no doubt; or his monogram, 
rather.” 

“Not all. The G with the small ¢ stands for ‘ Gesell- 
schaft,’ which is the German for ‘Company.’ It is a cus- 
tomary contraction like our ‘Co.’ P, of course, stands for 
‘Papier.’ Now for the Eg. Let us glance at our ‘ Con- 
tinental Gazetteer.” He took down a heavy brown vol- 
ume from his shelves. “ Eglow, Eglonitz—here we are, 
Egria. It is in a German-speaking country—in Bohemia, 
not far from Carlsbad. ‘ Remarkable as being the scene 
of the death of Wallenstein, and for its numerous glass 
factories and paper mills.” Ha! ha! my boy, what do you 
make of that?” His eyes sparkled, and he sent up a great 
blue triumphant cloud from his cigarette. 

“The paper was made in Bohemia,” I said. 

“ Precisely. And the man who wrote the note is a Ger-. 
man. Do you note the peculiar construction of the sen- 
tence— This account of you we have from all quarters re- 
ceived’? A Frenchman or Russian could not have written 
that. It is the German who is so uncourteous to his verbs. 
It only remains, therefore, to discover what is wanted by 
this German who writes upon Bohemian paper, and prefers 
wearing a mask to showing his face. And here he comes, 
if I am not mistaken, to resolve all our doubts.” 

As he spoke there was the sharp sound of horses’ hoofs 
and grating wheels against the curb, followed by a sharp 
- pull at the bell. Holmes whistled. 

“A pair, by the sound,” said he. “ Yes,” he continued, 
glancing out of the window. “A nice little brougham and 
a pair of beauties. A hundred and fifty guineas apiece. 
There’s money in this case, Watson, if there is nothing 
else,” 

“T think I had better go, Holmes.” 

“Not a bit, doctor. Stay where you are. I am lost 
without my Boswell. And this promises to be interesting. 
It would be a pity to miss it.” 

“But your client——” 


66 


A. Conan Doyle 


“ Never mind him. I may want your help, and so may 
he. Here he comes. Sit down in that armchair, doctor, 
and give us your best attention.” 

A slow and heavy step, which had been heard upon the 
stairs and in the passage, paused immediately outside the 
door. Then there was a loud and authoritative tap. 

“Come in!” said Holmes. 

A man entered who could hardly have been less than 
six feet six inches in height, with the chest and limbs of a 
Hercules. His dress was rich with a richness which would, 
in England, be looked upon as akin to bad taste. Heavy 
bands of astrakhan were slashed across the sleeves and 
front of his double-breasted coat, while the deep blue cloak 
which was thrown over his shoulders was lined with flame- 
colored silk, and secured at the neck with a brooch which 
consisted of a single flaming beryl. Boots which extended 
halfway up his calves, and which were trimmed at the 
tops with rich brown fur, completed the impression of bar- 
baric opulence which was suggested by his whole appear- 
ance. He carried a broad-brimmed hat in his hand, while 
he wore across the upper part of his face, extending down 
past the cheek-bones, a black visard mask, which he had 
apparently adjusted that very moment, for his hand was 
still raised to it as he entered. From the lower part of the 
face he appeared to be a man of strong character, with a 
thick, hanging lip, and a long, straight chin, suggestive of 
resolution pushed to the length of obstinacy. 

“You had my note?” he asked, with a deep, harsh voice 
and a strongly marked German accent. “I told you that 
I would call.” He looked from one to the other of us, as 
if uncertain which to address. 

“Pray take a seat,” said Holmes. “This is my friend 
and colleague, Doctor Watson, who is occasionally good 
enough to help me in my cases. Whom have I the honor 
to address?” 

“You may address me as the Count von Kramm, 2 
Bohemian nobleman. I understand that this gentleman, 
your friend, is a man of honor and discretion, whom I 

67 


Scotch Mystery Stories 


may trust with a matter of the most extreme importance. 
If not, I should much prefer to communicate with you 
alone.” | 

I rose to go, but Holmes caught me by the wrist and 
pushed me back into my chair. “It is both, or none,” said 
he. “ You may say before this gentleman anything which 
you may say to me.” 

The count shrugged his broad shoulders. “ Then I must 
begin,” said he, “ by binding you both to absolute secrecy 
for two years; at the end of that time the matter will be 
of no importance. At present it is not too much to say that 
it is of such weight that it may have an influence upon 
European history.” 

“T promise,” said Holmes. 

“andl. 

“You will excuse this mask,’ continued our strange. 
visitor. “The august person who employs me wishes his 
agent to be unknown to you, and I may confess at once 
that the title by which I have just called myself is not ex- 
actly my own.” 

“I was aware of it,” said Holmes, dryly. 

“The circumstances are of great delicacy, and every pre- 
caution has to be taken to quench what might grow to be 
an immense scandal, and seriously compromise one of the 
reigning families of Europe. To speak plainly, the matter 
implicates the great House of Ormstein, hereditary kings 
of Bohemia.” 

“T was also aware of that,’ murmured Holmes, set- 
tling himself down in his armchair, and closing his eyes. 

Our visitor glanced with some apparent surprise at the 
languid, lounging figure of the man who had been, no 
doubt, depicted to him as the most incisive reasoner and 
most energetic agent in Europe. Holmes slowly reopened 
his eyes and looked impatiently at his gigantic client. 

“Tf your majesty would condescend to state your case,” 

he remarked, “I should be better able to advise you.” 

The man sprung from his chair, and paced up and down 
the room in uncontrollable agitation. Then, with a gesture 

; 68 


A, Conan Doyle 


of desperation, he tore the mask from his face and hurled 
it upon the ground. 

“ You are right,” he cried, “Iam the king. Why should 
I attempt to conceal it?” 

“Why, indeed?” murmured Holmes. “ Your majesty 
had not spoken before I was aware that I was addressing 
Wilhelm Gottsreich Sigismond von Ormstein, Grand Duke 
of Cassel-Felstein, and hereditary King of Bohemia.” 

“ But you can understand,” said our strange visitor, sit- 
ting down once more and passing his hand over his high, 
white forehead, “ you can understand that I am not accus- 
tomed to doing such business in my own person. Yet the 
matter was so delicate that I could not confide it to an 
agent without putting myself in his power. I have come 
incognito from Prague for the purpose of consulting 
you.” 

“Then, pray consult,” said Holmes, shutting his eyes 
once more. 

“The facts are briefly these : Some five years ago, during 
a lengthy visit to Warsaw, I made the acquaintance of the 
well-known adventuress Irene Adler. The name is no doubt 
familiar to you.” 

“ Kindly look her up in my index, doctor,” murmured 
Holmes, without opening his eyes. For many years he 
had adopted a system for docketing all paragraphs con- 
cerning men and things, so that it was difficult to name a 
subject or a person on which he could not at once furnish 
information. In this case I found her biography sand- 
wiched in between that of a Hebrew rabbi and that of a 
staff commander who had written a monograph upon the 
deep-sea fishes. 

“Let me seel*" said Holmes..." um! Born in New 
Jersey in the year 1858. Contralto—hum! La Scala— 
hum! Prima donna Imperial Opera of Warsaw—yes! Re- 
tired from operatic stage—ha! Living in London—quite 
so! Your majesty, as I understand, became entangled with 
this young person, wrote her some compromising letters, 
and is now desirous of getting those letters back.” 


Scotch Mystery Stories 


“Precisely so. But how ig 

“ Was there a secret marriage?” 

SNOne.” 

“No legal papers or certificates?” 

“ None.” 

“Then I fail to follow your majesty. If this young per- 
son should produce her letters for blackmailing or other 
purposes, how is she to prove their authenticity?” 

“ There is the writing.” 

“ Pooh-pooh! Forgery.” 

“My private note paper.” 

role. 

“My own seal.” 

“Tmitated.” 

“My photograph.” 

“ Bought.” 

“We were both in the photograph.” 

“Oh, dear! That is very bad. Your majesty has indeed 
committed an indiscretion.” 

“T was mad—insane.” 

“You have compromised yourself seriously.” 

“T was only crown prince then. I was young. I am but 
thirty now.” 
~ “Tt must be recovered.” 

“We have tried and failed.” 

“Your majesty must pay. It must be bought.” 

“ She will not sell.” 

** Stolen, then.” 

“Five attempts have been made. Twice burglars in my 
pay ransacked her house. Once we diverted her luggage 
when she traveled. Twice she has been waylaid. There 
has been no result.” 

‘ Novsion ol it?” 

“ Absolutely none.” 

Holmes laughed. “It is quite a pretty little problem,” 
said he. 

“But a very serious one to me,” returned the king, re- 
proachfully. 


70 


A. Conan Doyle 


“Very, indeed. And what does she propose to do with 
the photograph? ” 

“ To ruin me.” 

“ But how?” 

“T am about to be married.” 

“So I have heard.” 

“To Clotilde Lothman von Saxe-Meiningen, second 
daughter of the King of Scandinavia. You may know the 
strict principles of her family. She is herself the very soul 
of delicacy. A shadow of a doubt as to my conduct would 
bring the matter to an end.” 

“ And Irene Adler?” 

“Threatens to send them the photograph. And she will 
do it. I know that she will do it. You do not know her, 
but she has a soul of steel. She has the face of the most 
beautiful of women and the mind of the most resolute of 
men. Rather than I should marry another woman, there 
are no lengths to which she would not go—none.” 

“You are sure she has not sent it yet?” 

“dam ‘sure:” 

* And why?” 

“ Because she has said that she would send it on the day 
when the betrothal was publicly proclaimed. That will be 
next Monday.” 

“ Oh, then we have three days yet,” said Holmes, with 
a yawn. “That is very fortunate, as I have one or two 
matters of importance to look into just at present. Your 
majesty will, of course, stay in London for the present?” 

“Certainly. You will find me at the Langham, under 
the name of the Count von Kramm.” 

“Then I shall drop you a line to let you know how we 
progress.” 

“ Pray do so; I shall be all anxiety.” 

“ Then, as to money?” 

“You have carte blanche.” 

“ Absolutely?” 

“T tell you that I would give one of the provinces of my 
kingdom to have that photograph.” 


71 


Scotch Mystery Stories 


“ And for present expenses?” 

The king took a heavy chamois-leather bag from under 
his cloak, and laid it on the table. 

“There are three hundred pounds in gold, and seven 
hundred in notes,” he said. 

Holmes scribbled a receipt upon a sheet of his notebook, 
and handed it to him. 

“ And mademoiselle’s address?” he asked. 

“Ts Briony Lodge, Serpentine Avenue, St. John’s 
Wood.” 

Holmes took a note of it. “One other question,” said 
he, thoughtfully. “Was the photograph a cabinet?” 

“Tt was.” 

“Then, good-night, your majesty, and I trust that we 
shall soon have some good news for you. And good- 
night, Watson,” he added, as the wheels of the royal 
brougham rolled down the street. “If you will be good 
enougn to call to-morrow afternoon, at three o’clock, I 
should like to chat this little matter over with you.” 


IT 


AT three o’clock precisely I was at Baker Street, but 
Holmes had not yet returned. The landlady informed me 
that he had left the house shortly after eight o’clock in the 
morning. I sat down beside the fire, however, with the in- 
tention of awaiting him, however long he might be. I was 
already deeply interested in his inquiry, for, though it was 
surrounded by none of the grim and strange features which 
were associated with the two crimes which I have already 
recorded, still, the nature of the case and the exalted station 
of his client gave it a character of its own. Indeed, apart 
from the nature of the investigation which my friend had 
on hand, there was something in his masterly grasp of a 
situation, and his keen, incisive reasoning, which made it a 
pleasure to me to study his system of work, and to follow 
the quick, subtle methods by which he disentangled the 


72 


A. Conan Doyle 


most inextricable mysteries. So accustomed was I to his’ 
invariable success that the very possibility of his failing had 
ceased to enter into my head. 

It was close upon four before the door opened, and a 
drunken-looking groom, ill-kempt and side-whiskered, with 
an inflamed face and disreputable clothes, walked into the 
room. Accustomed as I was to my friend’s amazing powers 
in the use of disguises, I had to look three times before I 
was certain that it was indeed he. With a nod he vanished 
into the bedroom, whence he emerged in five minutes 
tweed-suited and respectable, as of old. Putting his hands 
into his pockets, he stretched out his legs in front of the 
fire, and laughed heartily for some minutes. 

“Well, really!” he cried, and then he choked, a‘id 
laughed again until he was obliged to lie back, limp and 
helpless, in the chair. 

“What is it?” 

“It’s quite too funny. I am sure you could never guess 
how I employed my morning, or what I ended by doing.” 

“T can’t imagine. I suppose that you have been watch- 
ing the habits, and, perhaps, the house, of Miss Irene Ad- 
ler? 

“Quite so, but the sequel was rather unusual. I will tell 
you, however. I left the house a little after eight o’clock 
this morning in the character of a groom out of work. 
There is a wonderful sympathy and freemasonry among 
horsey men. Be one of them, and you will know all that 
there is to know. I soon found Briony Lodge. It is a 
bijou villa, with a garden at the back, but built out in the 
front right up to the road, two stories. Chubb lock to the 
door. Large sitting room on the right side, well furnished, 
with long windows almost to the floor, and those preposter- 
ous English window fasteners which a child could open. 
Behind there was nothing remarkable, save that the passage 
window could be reached from the top of the coach-house. 
I walked round it and examined it closely from every point 
of view, but without noting anything else of interest. 

“I then lounged down the street, and found, as I ex- 


73 


Scotch Mystery Stories 


pected, that there was a mews in a lane which runs down 
by one wall of the garden. I lent the hostlers a hand in 
rubbing down their horses, and I received in exchange two- 
pence, a glass of half and half, two fills of shag tobacco, 
and as much information as I could desire about Miss Adler, 
to say nothing of half a dozen other people in the neighbor- 
hood, in whom I was not in the least interested, but whose 
biographies I was compelled to listen to.” 

“ And what of Irene Adler?” I asked. 

“Oh, she has turned all the men’s heads down in that 
part. She is the daintiest thing under a bonnet on this 
planet. So say the Serpentine Mews, to a man. She lives 
quietly, sings at concerts, drives out at five every day, and 
returns at seven sharp for dinner. Seldom goes out at other 
tinaes, except when she sings. Has only one male visitor, 
but a good deal of him. He is dark, handsome, and dash- 
ing; never calls less than once a day, and often twice. He 
is a Mr. Godfrey Norton of the Inner Temple. See the 
advantages of a cabman as a confidant. They had driven 
him home a dozen times from Serpentine Mews, and knew 
all about him. When I had listened to all that they had to 
tell, I began to walk up and down near Briony Lodge once 
more, and to think over my plan of campaign. 

“This Godfrey Norton was evidently an important factor 
in the matter. He was a lawyer. That sounded ominous. 
What was the relation between them, and what the object 
of his repeated visits? Was she his client, his friend, or his 
mistress? If the former, she had probably transferred the 
photograph to his keeping. If the latter, it was less likely. 
On the issue of this question depended whether I should 
continue my work at Briony Lodge, or turn my attention 
to the gentleman’s chambers in the Temple. It was a deli- 
cate point, and it widened the field of my inquiry. I fear 
that I bore you with these details, but I have to let you see 
my little difficulties, if you are to understand the situation.” 

“T am following you closely,” I answered. 

“T was still balancing the matter in my mind, when a 
hansom cab drove up to Briony Lodge, and a gentleman 


74 


A. Conan Doyle 


sprung out. He was a remarkably handsome man, dark, 
aquiline, and mustached—evidently the man of whom I had 
heard. He appeared to be in a great hurry, shouted to the 
cabman to wait, and brushed past the maid who opened 
the door, with the air of a man who was thoroughly at 
home. 

“ He was in the house about half an hour, and I could 
catch glimpses of him in the windows of the sitting room, 
pacing up and down, talking excitedly and waving his arms. 
Of her I could see nothing. Presently he emerged, looking 
even more flurried than before. As he stepped up to the 
cab, he pulled a gold watch from his pocket and looked at it 
earnestly. ‘ Drive like the devil!’ he shouted, ‘ first to Gross 
& Hankey’s in Regent Street, and then to the Church of 
St. Monica in the Edgeware Road. Half a guinea if you 
do it in twenty minutes!’ 

“Away they went, and I was just wondering whether 
I should not do well to follow them, when up the lane came 
a neat little landau, the coachman with his coat only half 
buttoned, and his tie under his ear, while all the tags of 
his harness were sticking out of the buckles. It hadn’t 
pulled up before she shot out of the hall door and into it. 
I only caught a glimpse of her at the moment, but she 
was a lovely woman, with a face that a man might die for. 

“* The Church of St. Monica, John,’ she cried; ‘ and half 
a sovereign if you reach it in twenty minutes.’ 

“This was quite too good to lose, Watson. I was just 
balancing whether I should run for it, or whether I should 
perch behind her landau, when a cab came through the 
street. The driver looked twice at such a shabby fare; 
but I jumped in before he could object. ‘The Church of 
St. Monica,’ said I, ‘and half a sovereign if you reach it 
in twenty minutes.’ It was twenty-five minutes to twelve, 
and of course it was clear enough what was in the wind. 

“My cabby drove fast. I don’t think I ever drove faster, 
but the others were there before us. The cab and landau 
with their steaming horses were in front of the door when 
I arrived. I paid the man, and hurried into the church. 


75 


Scotch Mystery Stories 


There was not a soul there save the two whom I had fol- 
lowed, and a surpliced clergyman, who seemed to be ex- 
postulating with them. They were all three standing in 
a knot in front of the altar. I lounged up the side aisle like 
any other idler who has dropped into a church. Suddenly, 
to my surprise, the three at the altar faced round to me, 
and Godfrey Norton came running as hard as he could 
toward me. 

“ «Thank God!’ he cried. ‘ You'll do. Come! Come!’ 

“ “What then?’ I asked. 

““* Come, man, come; only three minutes, or it won’t 
be legal.’ 

“T was half dragged up to the altar, and, before I knew 
where I was, I found myself mumbling responses which 
were whispered in my ear, and vouching for things of which 
I knew nothing, and generally assisting in the secure tying 
up: of Irene Adler, spinster, to Godfrey Norton, bachelor. 
It was all done in an instant, and there was the gentleman 
thanking me on the one side and the lady on the other, 
while the clergyman beamed on me in front. It was the 
most preposterous position in which I ever found myself 
in my life, and it was the thought of it that started me 
laughing just now. It seems that there had been some 
informality about their license; that the clergyman abso- 
lutely refused to marry them without a witness of some 
sort, and that my lucky appearance saved the _ bride- 
groom from having to sally out into the streets in search 
of a best man. The bride gave me a sovereign, and I 
mean to wear it on my watch chain in memory of the 
occasion.” 

“This is a very unexpected turn of affairs,” said I; “ and 
what then?” 

“Well, I found my plans very seriously menaced. It 
looked as if the pair might take an immediate departure, 
and so necessitate very prompt and energetic measures 
on my part. At the church door, however, they separated, 
he driving back to the Temple, and she to her own house. 
‘I shall drive out in the park at five as usual,’ she said, 


76 


A. Conan Doyle 


as she left him. I heard no more. They drove away in 
different directions, and I went off to make my own ar- 
rangements.”’ 

“Which are?” 

“Some cold beef and a glass of beer,” he answered, ring- 
ing the bell. “I have been too busy to think of food, and 
I am likely to be busier still this evening. By the way, 
doctor, I shall want your codperation.” 

“TI shall be delighted.” 

“ You don’t mind breaking the law?”’ 

“ Not in the least.” 

“ Nor running a chance of arrest?” 

“Not in a good cause.” 

“Oh, the cause is excellent!” 

“Then I am your man.” 

“Twas sure that I might rely on you.” 

“ But what is it you wish?” 

“ When Mrs. Turner has brought in the tray I will make 
it clear to you. Now,” he said, as he turned hungrily on 
the simple fare that our landlady had provided, “I must 
discuss it while I eat, for I have not much time. It is 
nearly five now. In two hours we must be on the scene 
of action. Miss Irene, or Madame, rather, returns from 
her drive at seven. We must be at Briony Lodge to meet 
her: 

“ And what then?” 

“You must leave that to me. I have already arranged 
what is to occur. There is only one point on which I must 
insist. You must not interfere, come what may. You 
understand?” 

“Tam to be neutral?’ 

“To do nothing whatever. There will probably be some 
small unpleasantness. Do not join in it. It will end in 
my being conveyed into the house. Four or five minutes 
afterwards the sitting-room window will open. You are 
to station yourself close to that open window.” 

6é Yeo 

“You are to watch me, for I will be visible to you.” 


77 


Scotch Mystery Stories 


6é Yes.” 

“ And when I raise my hand—so—you will throw into 
the room what I give you to throw, and will, at the same 
time, raise the cry of fire. You quite follow me?” 

“ Entirely.” 

“Tt is nothing very formidable,” he said, taking a long, 
cigar-shaped roll from his pocket. “It is an ordinary 
plumber’s smoke-rocket, fitted with a cap at either end, to 
make it self-lighting. Your task is confined to that. When 
you raise your cry of fire, it will be taken up by quite 
a number of people. You may then walk to the end of the 
street, and I will rejoin you in ten minutes. I hope that 
I have made myself clear?” 

“T am to remain neutral, to get near the window, to 
watch you, and, at the signal, to throw in this object, then 
to raise the cry of fire and to wait you at the corner of the 
street.” 

“ Precisely.” 

“Then you may entirely rely on me.” 

“That is excellent. I think, perhaps, it is almost time 
that I prepared for the new role I have to play.” 

He disappeared into his bedroom, and returned in a few 
minutes in the character of an amiable and simple-minded 
Nonconformist clergyman. His broad, black hat, his 
baggy trousers, his white tie, his sympathetic smile, and 
general look of peering and benevolent curiosity were 
such as Mr. John Hare alone could have equaled. It 
was not merely that Holmes changed his costume. His ex- 
pression, his manner, his very soul seemed to vary with 
every fresh part that he assumed. The stage lost a fine 
actor, even as science lost an acute reasoner, when he be- 
came a specialist in crime. 

It was a quarter past six when we left Baker Street, and 
it still wanted ten minutes to the hour when we found our- 
selves in Serpentine Avenue. It was already dusk, and 
the lamps were just being lighted as we paced up and down 
in front of Briony Lodge, waiting for the coming of its 
occupant. The house was just such as I had pictured it 


78 


A. Conan Doyle 


from Sherlock Holmes’s succinct description, but the lo- 
cality appeared to be less private than I expected. On 
the contrary, for a small street in a quiet neighborhood, 
it was remarkably animated. There was a group of shab- 
bily dressed men smoking and laughing in a corner, a 
scissors grinder with his wheel, two guardsmen who were 
flirting with a nurse girl, and several well-dressed young 
men who were lounging up and down with cigars in their 
mouths. 

“ You see,” remarked Holmes, as we paced to and fro in 
front of the house, “ this marriage rather simplifies matters. 
The photograph becomes a double-edged weapon now. 
The chances are that she would be as averse to its being 
seen by Mr. Godfrey Norton as our client is to its coming 
to the eyes of his princess. Now the question is—where 
are we to find the photograph?” 

“Where, indeed?” 

“Tt is most unlikely that she carries it about with her. 
It is cabinet size. Too large for easy concealment about 
a woman’s dress. She knows that the king is capable of 
having her waylaid and searched. Two attempts of the 
sort have already been made. We may take it, then, that 
she does not carry it about with her.” 

“Where, then? ” 

“Her banker or her lawyer. There is that double pos- 
sibility. But I am inclined to think neither. Women are 
naturally secretive, and they like to do their own secreting. 
Why should she hand it over to anyone else? She 
could trust her own guardianship, but she could not tell 
what indirect or political influence might be brought to 
bear upon a business man. Besides, remember that she 
had resolved to use it within a few days. It must be where 
she can lay her hands upon it. It must be in her own 
house.” 

“ But it has twice been burglarized.” 

“Pshaw! They did not know how to look.” 

“ But how will you look?” 

“T will not look.” 


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Scotch Mystery Stories 


“ What then?”’ 

“T will get her to show me.” 

“ But she will refuse.” 

“She will not be able to. But I hear the rumble of 
wheels. It is her carriage. Now carry out my orders to 
the letter.” 

As he spoke, the gleam of the sidelights of a carriage 
came round the curve of the avenue. It was a smart little 
landau which rattled up to the door of Briony Lodge. As 
it pulled up one of the loafing men at the corner dashed 
forward to open the door in the hope of earning a copper, 
but was elbowed away by another loafer who had rushed 
up with the same intention. <A fierce quarrel broke out 
which was increased by the two guardsmen, who took 
sides with one of the loungers, and by the scissors grinder, 
who was equally hot upon the other side. A blow was 
struck, and in an instant the lady, who had stepped from 
her carriage, was the center of a little knot of struggling 
men who struck savagely at each other with their fists and 
sticks. Holmes dashed into the crowd to protect the lady; 
but, just as he reached her, he gave a cry and dropped 
to the ground, with the blood running freely down his face. 
At his fall the guardsmen took to their heels in one direc- 
tion and the loungers in the other, while a number of bet- 
ter-dressed people who had watched the scuffle without 
taking part in it crowded in to help the lady and to attend 
to the injured man. Irene Adler, as I will still call her, 
had hurried up the steps; but she stood at the top, with her 
superb figure outlined against the lights of the hall, look- 
ing back into the street. 

“Ts the poor gentleman much hurt?” she asked. 

“ He is dead,” cried several voices. 

“No, no, there’s life in him,” shouted another. “ But 
he’ll be gone before you can get him to the hospital.” 

“He’s a brave fellow,” said a woman. ‘“ They would 
have had the lady’s purse and watch if it hadn’t been for 
him. They were a gang, and a rough one, too. Ah! he’s 
breathing now.” 


80 


A. Conan Doyle 


“He can’t lie in the street. May we bring him in, 
marm?” 

“Surely. Bring him into the sitting room. There is 
a comfortable sofa. This way, please.” Slowly and sol- 
emnly he was borne into Briony Lodge, and laid out in 
the principal room, while I still observed the proceedings 
from my post by the window. The lamps had been lighted, 
but the blinds had not been drawn, so that I could see 
Holmes as he lay upon the couch. I do not know whether 
he was seized with compunction at that moment for the 
part he was playing, but I know that I never felt more 
heartily ashamed of myself in my life than when I saw 
the beautiful creature against whom I was conspiring, or 
the grace and kindliness with which she waited upon the 
injured man. And yet it would be the blackest treachery 
to Holmes to draw back now from the part which he had 
intrusted tome. I hardened my heart, and took the smoke- 
rocket from under my ulster. After all, I thought, we are 
not injuring her. We are but preventing her from injur- 
ing another. 

Holmes had sat upon the couch, and I saw him motion 
like a man who is in need of air. A maid rushed across 
and threw open the window. At the same instant I saw 
him raise his hand, and at the signal I tossed my rocket 
into the room with a cry of “Fire!” The word was no 
sooner out of my mouth than the whole crowd of specta- 
tors, well dressed and ill—gentlemen, hostlers, and serv- 
ant maids—joined in a general shriek of “ Fire!” Thick 
clouds of smoke curled through the room, and out at the 
open window. I caught a glimpse of rushing figures, and 
a moment later the voice of Holmes from within assuring 
them that it was a false alarm. Slipping through the shout- 
ing crowd, I made my way to the corner of the street, and 
in ten minutes was rejoiced to find my friend’s arm in 
mine, and to get away from the scene of uproar. He 
walked swiftly and in silence for some few minutes, until 
we had turned down one of the quiet streets which led 
toward the Edgeware Road. 

81 


Scotch Mystery Stories 


“You did it very nicely, doctor,” he remarked. “ Noth- 
ing could have been better. It is all right.” 

“You have the photograph?” 

“T know where it is.” 

“ And how did you find out?” 

“She showed me, as I told you that she would.” 

“Team stul in the dark.” 

“T do not wish to make a mystery,” said he, laughing. 
“The matter was perfectly simple. You, of course, saw 
that everyone in the street was an accomplice. They were 
all engaged for the evening.” 

“T guessed as much.” 

“Then, when the row broke out, I had a little moist 
red paint in the palm of my hand. I rushed forward, fell 
_ down, clapped my hand to my face, and became a piteous 
spectacle. It is an old trick.” 

“That also I could fathom.” 

“Then they carried me in. She was bound to have me 
in. What else could she do? And into her sitting room, 
which was the very room which I suspected. It lay be- 
tween that and her bedroom, and I was determined to see 
which. They laid me on a couch, I motioned for air, they 
were compelled to open the window, and you had your 
chance.” 

“ How did that help you?” 

“Tt was all-important. When a woman thinks that her 
house is on fire, her instinct is at once to rush to the 
thing which she values most. It is a perfectly overpow- 
ering impulse, and I have more than once taken advan- 
tage of it. In the case of the Darlington Substitution 
Scandal it was of use to me, and also in the Arnsworth 
Castle business. A married woman grabs at her baby— 
an unmarried one reaches for her jewel box. Now it was 
clear to me that our lady of to-day had nothing in the 
house more precious to her than what we are in quest of. 
She would rush to secure it. The alarm of fire was ad- 
mirably done. The smoke and shouting were enough to 

shake nerves of steel. She responded beautifully. The 
82 


A. Conan Doyle 


photograph is in a recess behind a sliding panel just above 
the right bell-pull. She was there in an instant, and I 
caught a glimpse of it as she drew it out. When I cried 
out that it was a false alarm, she replaced it, glanced at 
the rocket, rushed from the room, and I have not seen her 
since. I rose, and, making my excuses, escaped from the 
house. I hesitated whether to attempt to secure the pho- 
tograph at once; but the coachman had come in, and as he 
was watching me narrowly, it seemed safer to wait. A 
little over-precipitance may ruin all.” 

“ And now?” I asked. 

“Our quest is practically finished. I shall call with the 
king to-morrow, and with you, if you care to come with 
us. We will be shown into the sitting room to wait for the 
lady, but it is probable that when she comes she may find 
neither us nor the photograph. It might be a satisfaction 
to his majesty to regain it with his own hands.” 

“ And when will you call?” 

“ At eight in the morning. She will not be up, so that 
we shall have a clear field. Besides, we must be prompt, 
for this marriage may mean a complete change in her life 
and habits. I must wire to the king without delay.” 

We had reached Baker Street, and had stopped at the 
door. He was searching his pockets for the key, when 
some one passing said: 

“Good night, Mister Sherlock Holmes.” 

There were several people on the pavement at the time, 
but the greeting appeared to come from a slim youth in an 
ulster who had hurried by. 

“T’ve heard that voice before,” said Holmes, staring 
down the dimly lighted street. “ Now, I wonder who the 
deuce that could have been?” 


83 


Scotch Mystery Stories 


Til 


I stept at Baker Street that night, and we were engaged 
upon our toast and coffee in the morning, when the King 
of Bohemia rushed into the room. 

“You have really got it?” he cried, grasping Sherlock 
Holmes by either shoulder, and looking eagerly into his 
face. 

“Not yet.” 

“ But you have hopes?” 

“T have hopes.” 

“Then come. I am all impatience to be gone.” 

“We must have a cab.” 

“No, my brougham is waiting.” | 

“Then that will simplify matters.” We descended, and 
started off once more for Briony Lodge. 

““Trene Adler is married,” remarked Holmes. 

“ Married! When?” 

* Yesterday.” 

“ But to whom?” 

“To an English lawyer named Norton.” 

“ But she could not love him.” 

“T am in hopes that she does.” 

“ And why in hopes?” 

“ Because it would spare your majesty all fear of future 
annoyance. If the lady loves her husband, she does not 
love your majesty. If she does not love your majesty, 
there is no reason why she should interfere with your 
majesty’s plan.” 

“It is true. And yet— Well, I wish she had been 
of my own station. What a queen she would have made!”’ 
He relapsed into a moody silence, which was not broken 
until we drew up in Serpentine Avenue. 

The door of Briony Lodge was open, and an elderly 
woman stood upon the steps. She watched us with a sar- 
donic eye as we stepped from the brougham. 


84 


A. Conan Doyle 


“Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I believe?” said she. 

“T am Mr. Holmes,” answered my companion, looking 
at her with a questioning and rather startled gaze. 

“Indeed! My mistress told me that you were likely 
to call. She left this morning, with her husband, by the 
5:15 train from Charing Cross, for the Continent.” 

“ What!” Sherlock Holmes staggered back, white with 
chagrin and surprise. 

“Do you mean that she has left England?” 

“ Never to return.” 

“And the papers?” asked the king hoarsely. “ All is 
lost!” | 

““'We shall see.” He pushed past the servant, and rushed 
into the drawing-room, followed by the king and myself. 
The furniture was scattered about in every direction, with 
dismantled shelves, and open drawers, as if the lady had 
hurriedly ransacked them before her flight. Holmes rushed 
at the bell-pull, tore back a small sliding shutter, and 
plunging in his hand, pulled out a photograph and a letter. 
The photograph was of Irene Adler herself in evening 
dress; the letter was superscribed to “ Sherlock Holmes, 
Esq. To be left till called for.” My friend tore it open, 
and we all three read it together. It was dated at midnight 
of the preceding night, and ran in this way: 


“My peEAR Mr. SHERLOCK HotmeEs,—You really did it 
very well. You took me in completely. Until after the 
alarm of the fire, I had not a suspicion. But then, when I 
found how I had betrayed myself, I began to think. I had 
been warned against you months ago. I had been told 
that if the king employed an agent, it would certainly be 
you. And your address had been given me. Yet, with 
all this, you made me reveal what you wanted to know. 
Even after I became suspicious, I found it hard to think evil 
of such a dear, kind old clergyman. But, you know, I have 
been trained as an actress myself. Male costume is noth- 
ing new to me. I often take advantage of the freedom 
which it gives. I sent John, the coachman, to watch you, 


85 


Scotch Mystery Stories 


ran upstairs, got into my walking clothes, as I call them, 
and came down just as you departed. 

“Well, I followed you'to the door, and so made sure 
that I was really an object of interest to the celebrated Mr. 
Sherlock Holmes. Then I, rather imprudently, wished you 
good night, and started for the Temple to see my husband. 

“We both thought the best resource was flight when 
pursued by so formidable an antagonist; so you will find 
the nest empty when you call to-morrow. As to the pho- 
tograph, your client may rest in peace. I love and am 
loved by a better man than he. The king may do what he 
will without hindrance from one whom he has cruelly 
wronged. I keep it only to safeguard myself, and preserve 
a weapon which will always secure me from any steps 
which he might take ‘n the future. I leave a photograph 
which he might care to possess; and I remain, dear Mr. 
Sherlock Holmes, very truly yours, 

“TRENE Norton, née ADLER.” 


“What a woman—oh, what a woman!”’ cried the King 
of Bohemia, when we had all three read this epistle. “ Did 
I not tell you how quick and resolute she was? Would 
she not have made an admirable queen? Is it not a pity 
that she was not on my level?” 

“From what I have seen of the lady, she seems indeed 
to be on a very different level to your majesty,” said 
Holmes coldly. “I am sorry that I have not been able 
to bring your majesty’s business to a more successful con- 
clusion.” 

“On the contrary, my dear sir,” cried the king, “ noth- 
ing could be more successful. I know that her word is 
inviolate. The photograph is now as safe as if it were 
in the fire.” 

“T am glad to hear your majesty say so.” 

“T am immensely indebted to you. Pray tell me in 
what way I can reward you. This ring—’ He slipped an 
emerald snake ring from his finger, and held it out upon 
the palm of his hand. 

86 


A. Conan Doyle 


“ Your majesty has something which I should value even 
more highly,” said Holmes. 

“ You have but to name it.” 

“This photograph! ” 

The king stared at him in amazement. 

“Trene’s photograph!” he cried. “Certainly, if you 
wish it.” 

“T thank your majesty. Then there is no more to be 
done in the matter. I have the honor to wish you a very 
good morning.” He bowed, and turning away without 
observing the hand which the king had stretched out to 
him, he set off in my company for his chambers. 

And that was how a great scandal threatened to affect 
the kingdom of Bohemia, and how the best plans of Mr. 
Sherlock Holmes were beaten by a woman’s wit. He used 
to make merry over the cleverness of women, but I have 
not heard him do it of late. And when he speaks of Irene 
Adler, or when he refers to her photograph, it is always 
under the honorable title of the woman. 


The Red-Headed League 


I HAD called upon my friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, one 
day in the autumn of last year, and found him in deep 
conversation with a very stout, florid-faced elderly gentle- 
man, with fiery red hair. With an apology for my intru- 
sion, I was about to withdraw, when Holmes pulled me 
abruptly into the room and closed the door behind me. 

“You could not possibly have come at a better time, my 
dear Watson,” he said, cordially. 

“T was afraid that you were engaged.” 

“So... am, Very much soz 

“ Then I can wait in the next room.” 

“Not at all. This gentleman, Mr. Wilson, has been my 
partner and helper in many of my most successful cases, 
and I have no doubt that he will be of the utmost use to 
me in yours also.” 


87 


Scotch Mystery Stories 


The stout gentleman half rose from his chair and gave 
a bob of greeting, with a quick little questioning glance 
from his small, fat-encircled eyes. 

“Try the settee,’ said Holmes, relapsing into his armchair, 
and putting his finger tips together, as was his custom when 
in judicial moods. “I know, my dear Watson, that you 
share my love of all that is bizarre and outside the con- 
ventions and humdrum routine of everyday life. You have 
shown your relish for it by the enthusiasm which has 
prompted you to chronicle, and, if you will excuse my say- 
ing so, somewhat to embellish so many of my own little 
adventures.” 

“Your cases have indeed been of the greatest interest to 
me,” I observed. 

“You will remember that I remarked the other day, just 
before we went into the very simple problem presented by | 
Miss Mary Sutherland, that for strange effects and extraor- 
dinary combinations we must go to life itself, which is al- 
ways far more daring than any effort of the imagination.” 

“ A proposition which I took the liberty of doubting.” 

“You did, doctor, but none the less you must come round 
to my view, for otherwise I shall keep on piling fact upon 
fact on you, until your reason breaks down under them and 
acknowledge me to be right. Now, Mr. Jabez Wilson here 
has been good enough to call upon me this morning, and 
to begin a narrative which promises to be one of the most 
singular which I have listened to for some time. You have 
heard me remark that the strangest and most unique things 
are very often connected not with the larger but with the 
smaller crimes, and occasionally, indeed, where there is 
room for doubt whether any positive crime has been com- 
mitted. As far as I have heard, it is impossible for me to 
say whether the present case is an instance of crime or not, 
but the course of events is certainly among the most singu- 
lar that I have ever listened to. Perhaps, Mr. Wilson, you 
would have the great kindness to recommence your narra- 
tive. JI ask you, not merely because my friend, Dr. Wat- 
son, has not heard the opening part, but also because the 


A. Conan Doyle 


peculiar nature of the story makes me anxious to have every 
possible detail from your lips. As a rule, when I have heard 
some slight indication of the course of events I am able 
to guide myself by the thousands of other similar cases 
which occur to my memory. In the present instance I am 
forced to admit that the facts are, to the best of my belief, 
unique.” 

The portly client puffed out his chest with an appear- 
ance of some little pride, and pulled a dirty and wrinkled 
newspaper from the inside pocket of his greatcoat. As 
he glanced down the advertisement column, with his head 
thrust forward, and the paper flattened out upon his knee, 
I took a good look at the man, and endeavored, after the 
fashion of my companion, to read the indications which 
might be presented by his dress or appearance. 

I did not gain very much, however, by my inspection. 
Our visitor bore every mark of being an average common- 
place British tradesman, obese, pompous, and slow. He wore 
rather baggy gray shepherd’s check trousers, a not over- 
clean black frock coat, unbuttoned in the front, and a drab 
waistcoat with a heavy brassy Albert chain, and a square 
pierced bit of metal dangling down as an ornament. A 
frayed top hat and a faded brown overcoat with a wrinkled 
velvet collar lay upon a chair beside him. Altogether, look 
as I would, there was nothing remarkable about the man 
save his blazing red head and the expression of extreme 
chagrin and discontent upon his features, 

Sherlock Holmes’s quick eye took in my occupation, and 
he shook his head with a smile as he noticed my questioning 
glances. “ Beyond the obvious facts that he has at some 
time done manual labor, that he takes snuff, that he is a 
Freemason, that he has been in China, and that he has done 
a considerable amount of writing lately, I can deduce noth- 
ing else.” 

Mr. Jabez Wilson started up in his chair, with his fore- 
finger upon the paper, but his eyes upon my companion. 

“How, in the name of good fortune, did you know all 
that, Mr. Holmes?” he asked. ‘ How did you know, for 


89 


Scotch Mystery Stories 


example, that I did manual labor? It’s as true as gospel, 
for I began as a ship’s carpenter.” 

“Your hands, my dear sir. Your right hand is quite a 
size larger than your left. You have worked with it and 
the muscles are more developed.” 

“Well, the snuff, then, and the Freemasonry? ” 

“T won't insult your intelligence by telling you how I 
read that, especially as, rather against the strict rules of 
your order, you use an arc and compass breastpin.” 

“Ah, of course, I forgot that. But the writing?” 

“What else can be indicated by that right cuff so very 
shiny for five inches, and the left one with the smooth patch 
near the elbow where you rest it upon the desk.” 

“Well, but China?” 

“The fish which you have tattooed immediately above 
your wrist could only have been done in China. I have © 
made a small study of tattoo marks, and have even con- 
tributed to the literature of the subject. That trick of stain- 
ing the fishes’ scales of a delicate pink is quite peculiar to 
China. When, in addition, I see a Chinese coin hanging 
from your watch chain, the matter becomes even more 
simple.” 

Mr. Jabez Wilson laughed heayily. “ Well, I never!” 
said he. “I thought at first that you had done something 
clever, but I see that there was nothing in it after all.” 

“T begin to think, Watson,” said Holmes, “ that I make 
a mistake in explaining. ‘ Omne ignotom pro magnifico,’ 
you know, and my poor little reputation, such as it is, will 
suffer shipwreck if I am so candid. Can you not find the 
advertisement, Mr. Wilson?” 

“Yes, I have got it now,” he answered, with his thick, 
red finger planted halfway down the column. “ Here it 
is. This is what began it all. You just read it for yourself, 
sir.” 

I took the paper from him and read as follows: 


“To THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE: On account of the be- 
quest of the late Ezekiah Hopkins, of Lebanon, Pa., U.S. A., 


90 


A. Conan Doyle 


there is now another vacancy open which entitles a member 
of the League to a salary of four pounds a week for purely 
nominal services. All red-headed men who are sound in 
body and mind and above the age of twenty-one years are 
eligible. Apply in person on Monday, at eleven o’clock, to 
Duncan Ross, at the offices of the League, 7 Pope’s Court, 
leer Street. 


“What on earth does this mean?” I ejaculated, after I 
had twice read over the extraordinary announcement. 

Holmes chuckled and wriggled in his chair, as was his 
habit when in high spirits. “It is a little off the beaten 
track, isn’t it?” said he. “And now, Mr. Wilson, off 
you go at scratch, and tell us all about yourself, your house- 
hold, and the effect which this advertisement had upon your 
fortunes. You will first make a note, doctor, of the paper 
and the date.” 

“It is The Morning Chronicle of April 27, 1890. Just 
two months ago.” 

“Very good. Now, Mr. Wilson.” 

“Well, it is just as I have been telling you, Mr. Sher- 
lock Holmes,” said Jabez Wilson, mopping his forehead, 
“T have a small pawnbroker’s business at Saxe-Coburg 
Square, near the City. It’s not a very large affair, and of 
late years it has not done more than just give me a living. 
I used to be able to keep two assistants, but now I only 
keep one; and I would have a job to pay him but that he 
is willing to come for half wages, so as to learn the busi- 
ness.” 

“What is the name of this obliging youth?” asked Sher- 
lock Holmes. 

“His name is Vincent Spaulding, and he’s not such a 
youth either. It’s hard to say his age. I should not wish 
a smarter assistant, Mr. Holmes; and I know very well 
that he could better himself, and earn twice what I am 
able to give him. But, after all, if he is satisfied, why 
should I put ideas in his head?” 

“Why, indeed? You seem most fortunate in having 


gI 


Scotch Mystery Stortes 


an employee who comes under the full market price. It 
is not a common experience among employers in this age. 
I don’t know that your assistant is not as remarkable as 
your advertisement.” 

“Oh, he has his faults, too,’ said Mr. Wilson. “ Never 
was such a fellow for photography. Snapping away with 
a camera when he ought to be improving his mind, and 
then diving down into the cellar like a rabbit into its hole 
to develop his pictures. That is his main fault; but, on the 
whole, he’s a good worker. There’s no vice in him.” 

“ He is still with you, I presume?” 

“Yes, sir. He and a girl of fourteen, who does a bit 
of simple cooking, and keeps the place clean—that’s all 
I have in the house, for I am a widower, and never had 
any family. We live very quietly, sir, the three of us; and 
we keep a roof over our heads, and pay our debts, if we 
do nothing more. 

“The first thing that put us out was that advertisement. 
Spaulding, he came down into the office just this day eight 
weeks, with this very paper in his hand, and he says: 

“ey wish to the Lord, Mr. Wilson, that I was a red- 
headed man.’ 

Ww nate 2 | asks. 

“* Why,’ says he, ‘ here’s another vacancy on the League 
of the Red-headed Men. It’s worth quite a little fortune 
to any man who gets it, and I understand that there are 
more vacancies than there are men, so that the trustees are 
at their wits’ end what to do with the money. If my hair 
would only change color here’s a nice little crib all ready 
for me to step into.’ 

o* Wiiy. “what Js. it: thenr’ - asked. You ‘see, Mr. 
Holmes, I am a very stay-at-home man, and, as my business 
came to me instead of my having to go to it, I was often 
weeks on end without putting my foot over the door mat. 
In that way I didn’t know much of what was going on out- 
side, and I was always glad of a bit of news. 

“* Have you never heard of the League of the Red- 
headed Men?’ he asked. with his eyes open. 


g2 


A. Conan Doyle 


“© Never.’ 

“Why, I wonder at that, for you are eligible yourself 
for one of the vacancies.’ 

““* And what are they worth?’ I asked. 

“* Oh, merely a couple of hundred a year, but the work 
is slight, and it need not interfere very much with one’s 
other occupations.’ 

“Well, you can easily think that that made me prick up 
my ears, for the business has not been over good for some 
years, and an extra couple of hundred would have been 
very handy. 

“* Tell me all about it,’ said I. 

“* Well,’ said he, showing me the advertisement, ‘ you 
can see for yourself that the League has a vacancy, and 
there is the address where you should apply for particu- 
lars. As far as I can make out, the League was founded 
by an American millionaire, Ezekiah Hopkins, who was 
very peculiar in his ways. He was himself red-headed, and 
he had a great sympathy for all red-headed men; so, when 
he died, it was found that he had left his enormous fortune 
in the hands of trustees, with instructions to apply the in- 
terest to the providing of easy berths to men whose hair 
is of that color. From all I hear it is splendid pay, and 
very little to do.’ 

“<* But,’ said I, ‘there would be millions of red-headed 
men who would apply.’ 

“* Not so many as you might think,’ he answered. ‘ You 
see it is really confined to Londoners, and to grown men. 
This American had started from London when he was 
young, and he wanted to do the old town a good turn. 
Then, again, I have heard it is of no use your applying 
if your hair is light red, or dark red, or anything but real, 
bright, blazing, fiery red. Now, if you cared to apply, Mr. 
Wilson, you would just walk in; but perhaps it would 
hardly be worth your while to put yourself out of the way 
for the sake of a few hundred pounds.’ 

“ Now it is a fact, gentlemen, as you may see for your- 
selves, that my hair is of a very full and rich tint, so that 


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Scotch Mystery Stories 


it seemed to me that, if there was to be any competition 
in the matter, I stood as good a chance as any man that 
I had ever met. Vincent Spaulding seemed to know so 
much about it that I thought he might prove useful, so I 
just ordered him to put up the shutters for the day, and 
to come right away with me. He was very willing to have 
a holiday, so we shut the business up, and started off for 
the address that was given us in the advertisement. 

“TI never hope to see such a sight as that again, Mr. 
Holmes. From north, south, east, and west every man 
who had a shade of red in his hair had tramped into the 
City to answer the advertisement. Fleet Street was choked 
with red-headed folk, and Pope’s Court looked like a cos- 
ter’s orange barrow. I should not have thought there were 
so many in the whole country as were brought together by 
that single advertisement. Every shade of color they were 
—straw, lemon, orange, brick, Irish setter, liver, clay; but, 
as Spaulding said, there were not many who had the real 
vivid flame-colored tint. When I saw how many were wait- 
ing, I would have given it up in despair; but Spaulding 
would not hear of it. How he did it I could not imagine, 
but he pushed and pulled and butted until he got me through 
the crowd, and right up to the steps which led to the office. 
There was a double stream upon the stair, some going up 
in hope, and some coming back dejected; but we wedged 
in as well as we could, and soon found ourselves in the 
office.” 

“Your experience has been a most entertaining one,” 
remarked Holmes, as his client paused and refreshed his 
memory with a huge pinch of snuff. “ Pray continue your 
very interesting statement.” 

“There was nothing in the office but a couple of wooden 
chairs and a deal table, behind which sat a small man, with 
a head that was even redder than mine. He said a few 
words to each candidate as he came up, and then he always 
managed to find some fault in them which would disqualify 
them. Getting a vacancy did not seem to be such a very easy 
matter after all. However, when our turn came, the little 


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man was much more favorable to me than to any of the 
others, and he closed the door as we entered, so that he 
might have a private word with us. 

“* This is Mr, Jabez Wilson,’ said my assistant, ‘and he 
is willing to fill a vacancy in the League.’ 

“* And he is admirably suited for it,’ the other answered. 
‘He has every requirement. I cannot recall when I have 
seen anything so fine.’ He took a step backward, cocked 
his head on one side, and gazed at my hair until I felt quite © 
bashful. Then suddenly he plunged forward, wrung my 
hand, and congratulated me warmly on my success. 7 

“Tt would be injustice to hesitate,’ said he. ‘ You will, 
however, I am sure, excuse me for taking an obvious pre- 
caution.’ With that he seized my hair in both his hands, 
and tugged until I yelled with the pain. ‘ There is water in 
your eyes,’ said he, as he released me. ‘I perceive that all 
is as it should be. But we have io be careful, for we have 
twice been deceived by wigs and once by paint. I could 
tell you tales of cobbler’s wax which would disgust you 
with human nature.’ He stepped over to the window and 
shouted through it at the top of his voice that the vacancy 
was filled. A groan of disappointment came up from below, 
and the folk all trooped away in different directions, until 
there was not a red head to be seen except my own and 
that of the manager. 

““* My name,’ said he, ‘is Mr. Duncan Ross, and I am 
myself one of the pensioners upon the fund left by our 
noble benefactor. Are you a married man, Mr. Wilson? 
Have you a family?’ 

“T answered that I had not. 

“ His face fell immediately. 

““Dear me!’ he said, gravely, ‘that is very serious in- 
deed! I am sorry to hear you say that. The fund was, 
of course, for the propagation and spread of the red heads 
as well as for their maintenance. It is exceedingly unfor- 
tunate that you should be a bachelor.’ 

“My face lengthened at this, Mr. Holmes, for I thought 
that I was not to have the vacancy after all; but, after 


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thinking it over for a few minutes, he said that it would 
be all right. 

“*TIn the case of another,’ said he, ‘the objection might 
be fatal, but we must stretch a point in favor of a man 
with such a head of hair as yours. When shall you be able 
to enter upon your new duties?’ 

“<* Well, it is a little awkward, for I have a business al- 
ready,’ said I. 

“* Oh, never mind about that, Mr. Wilson!’ said Vin- 
cent Spaulding. ‘I shall be able to look after that for 
you.’ 

“* What would be the hours?’ I asked. 

wo Ten 10 two. 

“Now a pawnbroker’s business is mostly done of an 
evening, Mr. Holmes, especially Thursday and Friday even- 
ings, which is just before pay day; so it would suit me very 
well to earn a little in the mornings. Besides, I knew that 
my assistant was a good man, and that he would see to 
anything that turned up. 

“*That would suit me very well,’ said I. ‘And the 
pay?’ 

“Ts four pounds a week.’ 

““ And the work?’ 

“Ts purely nominal.’ 

“¢ What do you call purely nominal?’ 

“* Well, you have to be in the office, or at least in the 
building, the whole time. If you leave, you forfeit your 
whole position forever. The will is very clear upon that 
point. You don’t comply with the conditions if you budge 
from the office during that time.’ 

““Tt’s only four hours a day, and I should not think of 
leaving,’ said I. 

“*No excuse will avail,’ said Mr. Duncan Ross, ‘ neither 
sickness, nor business, nor anything else. There you must 
stay, or you lose your billet.’ 

“* And the work?’ 

““Ts to copy out the “ Encyclopedia Britannica.” There 
is the first volume of it in that press. You must find your 

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own ink, pens, and blotting paper, but we provide this table 
and chair. Will you be ready to-morrow?’ 

“* Certainly,’ I answered. 

“«Then, good-by, Mr. Jabez Wilson, and let me con- 
gratulate you once more on the important position which 
you have been fortunate enough to gain.” He bowed me 
out of the room, and I went home with my assistant hardly 
knowing what to say or do, I was so pleased at my own 
good fortune. 

“Well, I thought over the matter all day, and by even- 
ing I was in low spirits again; for I had quite persuaded 
myself that the whole affair must be some great hoax or 
fraud, though what its object might be I could not imagine. 
It seemed altogether past belief that anyone could make 
such a will, or that they would pay such a sum for doing 
anything so simple as copying out the ‘ Encyclopedia Bri- 
tannica.’ Vincent Spaulding did what he could to cheer 
me up, but by bed time I had reasoned myself out of the 
whole thing. However, in the morning I determined to 
have a look at it anyhow, so I bought a penny bottle of ink, 
and with a quill pen and seven sheets of foolscap paper I 
started off for Pope’s Court. 

“Well, to my surprise and delight everything was as right 
as possible. The table was set out ready for me, and Mr. 
Duncan Ross was there to see that I got fairly to work. 
He started me off upon the letter A, and then he left me; 
but he would drop in from time to time to see that all was 
right with me. At two o’clock he bade me good-day, com- 
plimented me upon the amount that I had written, and 
locked the door of the office after me. 

“This went on day after day, Mr. Holmes, and on Sat- 
urday the manager came in and planked down four golden 
sovereigns for my week’s work. It was the same next week, 
and the same the week after. Every morning I was there 
at ten, and every afternoon I left at two. By degrees Mr. 
Duncan Ross took to coming in only once of a morning, 
and then, after a time, he did not come in at all. Still, of 
course, I never dared to leave the room for an instant, for 


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I was not sure when he might come, and the billet was such 
a good one, and suited me so well, that I would not risk 
the loss of it. 

“Eight weeks passed away like this, and I had written 
about Abbots, aad Archery, and Armor, and Architecture, 
and Attica, and hoped with diligence that I might get on 
to the Bs before very long. It cost me something in fools- 
cap, and I had pretty nearly filled a shelf with my writings. 
And then suddenly the whole business came to an end.” 

Loran end. 

“Yes, sir. And no later than this morning. I went to 
my work as usual at ten o’clock, but the door was shut 
and locked, with a little square of cardboard hammered onto 
the middle of the panel with a tack. Here it is, and you 
can read for yourself.” 

He held up a piece of white cardboard, about the size of | 
a sheet of note paper. It read in this fashion: 


“THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE IS DISSOLVED. 
Oct. 9, 1890.” 


Sherlock Holmes and I surveyed this curt announcement 
and the rueful face behind it, until the comical side of the 
affair so completely overtopped every consideration that we 
both burst out into a roar of laughter. 

“T cannot see that there is anything very funny,” cried 
our client, flushing up to the roots of his flaming head. 
“Tf you can do nothing better than laugh at me, I can go 
elsewhere.” 

“No, no,” cried Holmes, shoving him back into the chair 
from which he had half risen. “I really wouldn’t miss 
your case for the world. It is most refreshingly unusual. 
But there is, if you will excuse my saying so, something 
just a little funny about it. Pray what steps did you take 
when you found the card upon the door?” 

“T was staggered, sir. I did not know what to do. Then 
I called at the offices round, but none of them seemed to 
know anything about it. Finally, I went to the landlord, 


A. Conan Doyle 


who is an accountant living on the ground floor, and I asked 
him if he could tell me what had become of the Red-headed 
League. He said that he had never heard of any such 
body. Then I asked him who Mr. Duncan Ross was. He 
answered that the name was new to him. 

“* Well,’ said I, ‘the gentleman at No. 4.’ 

““* What, the red-headed man?’ 

cee Yes.’ 

“* Oh,’ said he, ‘his name was William Morris. He was 
a solicitor, and was using my room as a temporary con- 
venience until his new premises were ready. He moved out 
yesterday.’ 

“* Where could I find him?’ 

“* Oh, at his new offices. He did tell me the address. 
Yes, 17 King Edward Street, near St. Paul’s.’ 

“T started off, Mr. Holmes, but when I got to that ad- 
dress it was a manufactory of artificial knee-caps, and no 
one in it had ever heard of either Mr. William Morris. or 
Mr. Duncan Ross.” 

“And what did you do then?” asked Holmes. 

“T went home to Saxe-Coburg Square, and I took the 
advice of my assistant. But he could not help me in any 
way. He could only say that if I waited I should hear by 
post. But that was not quite good enough, Mr. Holmes. 
I did not wish to lose such a place without a struggle, so, 
as J had heard that you were good enough to give advice 
to poor folk who were in need of it, I came right away to 
you.” 

“ And you did very wisely,” said Holmes. “ Your case 
is an exceedingly remarkable one, and I shall be happy 
to look into it. From what you have told me I think that 
it is possible that graver issues hang from it than might 
at first sight appear.” 

“Grave enough!” said Mr. Jabez Wilson. “ Why, I 
have lost four pound a week.” 

“As far as you are personally concerned,” remarked 
Holmes, “I do not see that you have any grievance against 
this extraordinary league. On the contrary, you are, as I 


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understand, richer by some thirty pounds, to say nothing 
of the minute knowledge which you have gained on every 
subject which comes under the letter A. You have lost 
nothing by them.” 

“No, sir. But I want to find out about them, and who 
they are, and what their object was in playing this prank 
—if it was a prank—upon me. It was a pretty expensive 
joke for them, for it cost them two-and-thirty pounds.” 

“We shall endeavor to clear up these points for you. 
And, first, one or two questions, Mr. Wilson. This assist- 
ant of yours who first called your attention to the adver- 
tisement—how long had he been with you?” 

“ About a month then.” 

“How did he come?” 

“In answer to an advertisement.” 

“Was he the only applicant? ”’ 

* No, LP had a dozen,” 

“Why did you pick him? ” 

“ Because he was handy and would come cheap.” 

“ At half wages, in fact.” 

6c“ Yes.” 

“What is he like, this Vincent Spaulding? ” 

“Small, stout-built, very quick in his ways, no hair on 
his face, though he’s not short of thirty. Has a white 
splash of acid upon his forehead.” 

Holmes sat up in his chair in considerable excitement. 
“T thought as much,” said he. “ Have you ever observed 
that his ears are pierced for earrings?” 

“Yes, sir. He told me that a gypsy had done it for 
him when he was a lad.” 

“Hum!” said Holmes, sinking back in deep thought. 
“He is still with you?” 

“Oh, yes, sir; I have only just left him.” 

“And has your business been attended to in your ab- 
sence?” 

“ Nothing to complain of, sir. There’s never very much 
to do of a morning.” 

“That will do, Mr. Wilson. I shall be happy to give 

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you an opinion upon the subject in the course of a day 


or two. To-day is Saturday, and I hope that cby, Monday mais 


we may come to a conclusion.” “oe 


¢ Well, Watson,” said Holmes, when our visitor uae ae eae 


us, “what do you make of it all? ” a SO 

“TI make nothing of it,’ I answered frankly. “ tt is a 
most mysterious business.” 

“ As a rule,” said Holmes, “the more bizarre a thing is 
the less mysterious it proves to be. It is your common- 
place, featureless crimes which are really puzzling, just as 
a commonplace face is the most difficult to identify. But 
I must be prompt over this matter.” 

“ What are you going to do, then?” I asked. 

“To smoke,” he answered. “It is quite a three-pipe 
problem, and I beg that you won’t speak to me for fifty 
minutes.” He curled himself up in his chair, with his thin 
knees drawn up to his hawklike nose, and there he sat 
with his eyes closed and his black clay pipe thrusting out 
like the bill of some strange bird. I had come to the 
conclusion that he had dropped asleep, and indeed was 
nodding myself, when he suddenly sprang out of his chair 
with the gesture of a man who has made up his mind, 
and put his pipe down upon the mantelpiece. 

“ Sarasate plays at St. James’s Hall this afternoon,” he 
remarked. ‘“ What do you think, Watson? Could your 
patients spare you for a few hours?” 

“TI have nothing to do to-day. My practice is never 
very absorbing.” 

“Then put on your hat and come. I am going through 
the City first, and we can have some lunch on the way. 
I observe that there is a good deal of German music on 
the programme, which is rather more to my taste than 
Italian or French. It is introspective, and I want to in- 
trospect. Come along!” 

We traveled by the Underground as far as Aldersgate ; 
and a short walk took us to Saxe-Coburg Square, the scene 
of the singular story which we had listened to in the morn- 
ing. It was a poky, little, shabby-genteel place, where 

IOI 


Scotch Mystery Stories 


four lines of dingy, two-storied brick houses looked out 
. int@ a:small ‘railed-in inclosure, where a lawn of weedy 


ie grass, and-a’few clumps of faded laurel bushes made a hard 
i» “figkt*against. a Ssmoke-laden and uncongenial atmosphere, 


Three gilt balls and a brown board with JaBEz WILSON in 
white letters, upon a corner house, announced the place 
where our red-headed client carried on his business. Sher- 
lock Holmes stopped in front of it with his head on one 
side, and looked it all over, with his eyes shining brightly 
between puckered lids. Then he walked slowly up the 
street, and then down again to the corner, still looking 
keenly at the houses. Finally he returned to the pawn- 
broker’s and, having thumped vigorously upon the pave- 
ment with his stick two or three times, he went up to the 
door and knocked. It was instantly opened by a bright- 
looking, clean-shaven young fellow, who asked him to 
step in. 

“Thank you,” said Holmes, “I only wished to ask you 
how you would go from here to the Strand.” 

“Third right, fourth left,’ answered the assistant, 
promptly, closing the door. | 

“Smart fellow, that,” observed Holmes as we walked 
away. “ He is, in my judgment, the fourth smartest man 
in London, and for daring I am not sure that he has not 
a claim to be third. I have known something of him be- 
fore.” 

“Evidently,” said I, “ Mr. Wilson’s assistant counts for 
a good deal in this mystery of the Red-headed League. I 
am sure that you inquired your way merely in order that 
you might see him.” 

© Not. hum.” 

“What then? ” 

“The knees of his trousers.” 

“And what did you see?” 

“What I expected to see.” 

“Why did you beat the pavement? ” 

“My dear doctor, this is a time for observation, not for 
talk. We are spies in an enemy’s country. We know 

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A. Conan Doyle 


something of Saxe-Coburg Square. Let us now explore 
the parts which lie behind it.” 

The road in which we found ourselves as we turned 
round the corner from the retired Saxe-Coburg Square 
presented as great a contrast to it as the front of a picture 
does to the back. It was one of the main arteries which 
convey the traffic of the City to the north and west. The 
roadway was blocked with the immense stream of com- 
merce flowing in a double tide inward and outward, while 
the footpaths were black with the hurrying swarm of 
pedestrians. It was difficult to realize, as we looked at the 
line of fine shops and stately business premises, that they 
really abutted on the other side upon the faded and stag- 
nant square which we had just quitted. 

“Let me see,” said Holmes, standing at the corner, and 
glancing along the line, “I should like just to remember 
the order of the houses here. It is a hobby of mine to 
have an exact knowledge of London. There is Morti- 
mer’s, the tobacconist; the littlé newspaper shop, the 
Coburg branch of the City and Suburban Bank, the 
Vegetarian Restaurant, and McFarlane’s carriage-building 
depot. That carries us right on to the other block. And 
now, doctor, we’ve done our work, so it’s time we had 
some play. A sandwich and a cup of coffee, and then 
off to violin-land, where all is sweetness, and delicacy, and 
harmony, and there are no red-headed clients to vex us 
with their conundrums.” 

My friend was an enthusiastic musician, being himself 
not only a very capable performer, but a composer of no 
ordinary merit. All the afternoon he sat in the stalls 
wrapped in the most perfect happiness, gently waving his 
long thin fingers in time to the music, while his gently 
smiling face and his languid, dreamy eyes were as unlike 
those of Holmes the sleuth-hound, Holmes the relentless, 
keen-witted, ready-handed criminal agent, as it was pos- 
sible to conceive. In his singular character the dual na- 
ture alternately asserted itself, and his extreme exactness 
and astuteness represented, as I have often thought, the 

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Scotch Mystery Stories 


reaction against the poetic and contemplative mood which 
occasionally predominated in him. The swing of his na- 
ture took him from extreme languor to devouring energy ; 
and, as I knew well, he was never so truly formidable as 
when, for days on end, he had been lounging in his arm- 
chair amid his improvisations and his black-letter editions. 
Then it was that the lust of the chase would suddenly 
come upon him, and that his brilliant reasoning power 
would rise to the level of intuition, until those who were 
unacquainted with his methods would look askance at him 
as on a man whose knowledge was not that of other mor- 
tals. When I saw him that afternoon so enwrapped in the 
music at St. James’s Hall, I felt that an evil time might 
be coming upon those whom he had set himself to hunt 
down. 

“You want to go home, no doubt, doctor,” he remarked, 
as we emerged. 

“Yes, it would be as well.” 

“And I have some business to do which will take some 
hours. This business at Saxe-Coburg Square is serious.” 

“Why serious?” 

“A considerable crime is in contemplation. I have every 
reason to believe that we shall be in time to stop it. But 
to-day being Saturday rather complicates matters. I shall 
want your help to-night.” 

“At what timer ” 

“Ten will be early enough.”’ 

“T shall be at Baker Street at ten.” 

“Very well. And, I say, doctor! there may be some 
little danger, so kindly put your army revolver in your 
pocket.” He waved his hand, turned on his heel, and dis- 
appeared in an instant among the crowd. 

I trust that J am not more dense than my neighbors, 
but I was always oppressed with a sense of my own stu- 
pidity in my dealings with Sherlock Holmes. Here I had 
heard what he had heard, I had seen what he had seen, 
and yet from his words it was evident that he saw clearly 
not only what had happened, but what was about to hap- 

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A. Conan Doyle 


pen, while to me the whole business was still confused and | 
grotesque. As I drove home to my house in Kensington 
I thought over it all, from the extraordinary story of the 
red-headed copier of the “ Encyclopedia” down to the 
visit to Saxe-Coburg Square, and the ominous words with 
which he had parted from me. What was this nocturnal 
expedition, and why should I go armed? Where were we 
going, and what were we to do? I had the hint from 
Holmes that this smooth-faced pawnbroker’s assistant was 
a formidable man—a man who might play a deep game. 
I tried to puzzle it out, but gave it up in despair, and 
set the matter aside until night should bring an explana- 
tion. 

It was a quarter-past nine when I started from home and 
made my way across the Park, and so through Oxford 
Street to Baker Street. Two hansoms were standing at 
the door, and, as I entered the passage, I heard the sound 
of voices from above. -On entering his room, I found 
Holmes in animated conversation with two men, one of 
whom I recognized as Peter Jones, the official police 
agent; while the other was a long, thin, sad-faced man, 
with a very shiny hat and oppressively respectable frock 
coat. 

“Ha! our party is complete,” said Holmes, buttoning 
up his pea-jacket, and taking his heavy hunting crop from 
the rack. ‘“ Watson, I think you know Mr. Jones, of Scot- 
land Yard? Let me introduce you to Mr. Merryweather, 
who is to be our companion in to-night’s adventure.” 

“We're hunting in couples again, doctor, you see,” said 
Jones, in his consequential way. “Our friend here is a 
wonderful man for starting a chase. All he wants is an 
old dog to help him do the running down.” 

“I hope a wild goose may not prove to be the end of 
our chase,” observed Mr. Merryweather gloomily. 

“You may place considerable confidence in Mr. Holmes, 
sir,” said the police agent loftily. ‘“ He has his own little 
methods, which are, if he won’t mind my saying so, just a 
little too theoretical and fantastic, but he has the makings 

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Scotch Mystery Stories 


of a detective in him. It is not too much to say that once 
or twice, as in that business of the Sholto murder and the 
Agra treasure, he has been more nearly correct than the 
official force.” 

“Oh, if you say so, Mr. Jones, it is all right!” said 
the stranger, with deference. “ Still, I confess that I miss 
my rubber. It is the first Saturday night for seven-and- 
twenty years that I have not had my rubber.” 

“T think you will find,” said Sherlock Holmes, “ that you 
will play for a higher stake to-night than you have ever 
done yet, and that the play will be more exciting. For 
you, Mr. Merryweather, the stake will be some thirty 
thousand pounds; and for you, Jones, it will be the man 
upon whom you wish to lay your hands.” 

“John Clay, the murderer, thief, smasher, and forger. 
He’s a young man, Mr. Merryweather, but he is at the | 
head of his profession, and I would rather have my brace- 
lets on him than on any criminal in London. He’s a re- 
markable man, is young John Clay. His grandfather was 
a Royal Duke, and he himself has been to Eton and Ox- 
ford. His brain is as cunning as his fingers, and though 
we meet signs of him at every turn, we never know where 
to find the man himself. He’ll crack a crib in Scotland one 
week, and be raising money to build an orphanage in Corn- 
wall the next. I’ve been on his track for years, and have 
never set eyes on him yet.” 

“T hope that I may have the pleasure of introducing 
you to-night. I’ve had one or two little turns also with 
Mr. John Clay, and I agree with you that he is at the 
head of his profession. It is past ten, however, and quite 
time that we started. If you two will take the first han- 
som, Watson and I will follow in the second.” 

Sherlock Holmes was not very communicative during 
the long drive, and lay back in the cab humming the tunes 
which he had heard in the afternoon. We rattled through 
an endless labyrinth of gaslit streets until we emerged 
into Farringdon Street. 

“We are close there now,” my friend remarked. “ This 


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A. Conan Doyle 


fellow Merryweather is a bank director and personally in- 
terested in the matter. I thought it as well to have Jones 
with us also. He is not a bad fellow, though an absolute 
imbecile in his profession. He has one positive virtue. 
He is as brave as a bulldog, and as tenacious as a lobster 
if he gets his claws upon anyone. Here we are, and they 
are waiting for us.” 

We had reached the same crowded thoroughfare in 
which we had found ourselves in the morning. Our cabs 
were dismissed, and following the guidance of Mr. Merry- 
weather, we passed down a narrow passage, and through 
a side door which he opened for us. Within there was a 
small corridor, which ended in a very massive iron gate. 
This also was opened, and led down a flight of winding 
stone steps, which terminated at another formidable gate. 
Mr. Merryweather stopped to light a lantern, and then 
conducted us down a dark, earth-smelling passage, and 
so, after opening a third door, into a huge vault or cellar, 
which was piled all round with crates and massive boxes. 

“You are not very vulnerable from above,” Holmes re- 
marked, as he held up the lantern and gazed about him. 

“Nor from below,” said Mr. Merryweather, striking his 
stick upon the flags which lined the floor. “ Why, dear 
me, it sounds quite hollow!” he remarked, looking up in 
surprise. 

“T must really ask you to be a little more quiet,” said 
Holmes severely. “ You have already imperiled the whole 
success of our expedition. Might I beg that you would 
have the goodness to sit down upon one of those boxes, 
and not to interfere? ” 

The solemn Mr. Merryweather perched himself upon a 
crate, with a very injured expression upon his face, while 
Holmes fell upon his knees upon the floor, and, with the 
lantern and a magnifying lens, began to examine minutely 
the cracks between the stones. A few seconds sufficed to 
satisfy him, for he sprang to his feet again, and put his 
glass in his pocket. 

“We have at least an hour before us,” he remarked, “ for 

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they can hardly take any steps until the good pawnbroker 
is safely in bed. Then they will not lose a minute, for the 
sooner they do their work the longer time they will have 
for their escape. We are at present, doctor—as no doubt 
you have divined—in the cellar of the City branch of one 
of the principal London banks. Mr. Merryweather is the 
chairman of directors, and he will explain to you that there 
are reasons why the more daring criminals of London 
should take a considerable interest in this cellar at present.” 

“Tt is our French gold,” whispered the director. “‘ We 
have had several warnings that an attempt might be made 
upon it.” 

“Your French gold?” 

“Yes. We had occasion some months ago to strengthen 
our resources, and borrowed, for that purpose, thirty thou- 
sand napoleons from the Bank of France. It has become 
known that we have never had occasion to unpack the 
money, and that it is still lying in our cellar. The crate 
upon which I sit contains two thousand napoleons packed 
between layers of lead foil. Our reserve of bullion is much 
larger at present than is usually kept in a single branch 
office, and the directors have had misgivings upon the sub- 
ject.” 

“Which were very well justified,’ observed Holmes. 
“And now it is time that we arranged our little plans. 
I expect that within an hour matters will come to a head. 
In the meantime, Mr. Merryweather, we must put the 
screen over that dark lantern.” 

“And sit in the dark?” 

“Tam afraid so. I had brought a pack of cards in my 
pocket, and I thought that, as we were a partie carrée, you 
might have your rubber after all. But I see that the 
enemy’s preparations have gone so far that we cannot risk 
the presence of a light. And, first of all, we must choose 
our positions. These are daring men, and, though we- 
shall take them at a disadvantage, they may do us some 
harm, unless we are careful. I shall stand behind this 
crate, and do you conceal yourself behind those. Then, 

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when I flash a light upon them, close in swiftly. If they 
fire, Watson, have no compunction about shooting them 
down.” 

I placed my revolver, cocked, upon the top of the 
wooden case behind which I crouched. Holmes shot the 
slide across the front of his lantern, and left us in pitch 
darkness—such an absolute darkness as I have never be- 
fore experienced. The smell of hot metal remained to 
assure us that the light was still there, ready to flash out 
at a moment’s notice. To me, with my nerves worked up 
to a pitch of expectancy, there was something depressing 
and subduing in the sudden gloom, and in the cold, dank 
air of the vault. 

“ They have but one retreat,’ whispered Holmes. “ That 
is back through the house into Saxe-Coburg Square. I 
hope that you have done what I asked you, Jones?” 

“T have an inspector and two officers waiting at the 
front door.” 

“Then we have stopped all the holes. And now we 
must be silent and wait.” 

What a time it seemed! From comparing notes after- 
wards, it was but an hour and a quarter, yet it appeared to 
me that the night must have almost gone, and the dawn 
be breaking above us. My limbs were weary and stiff, for 
I feared to change my position, yet my nerves were worked 
up to the highest pitch of tension, and my hearing was 
so acute that I could not only hear the gentle breathing 
of my companions, but I could distinguish the deeper, 
heavier inbreath of the bulky Jones from the thin, sighing 
note of the bank director. From my position I could look 
over the case in the direction of the floor. Suddenly my 
eyes caught the glint of a light. 

At first it was but a lurid spark upon the stone pave- 
ment. Then it lengthened out until it became a yellow 
line, and then, without any warning or sound, a gash 
seemed to open and a hand appeared, a white, almost 
womanly hand, which felt about in the center of the little 
area of light. For a minute or more the hand, with its 


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Scotch Mystery Stories 


writhing fingers, protruded out of the floor. Then it was 
withdrawn as suddenly as it appeared, and all was dark 
again save the single lurid spark, which marked a chink 
between the stones. 

Its disappearance, however, was but momentary. With 
a rending, tearing sound, one of the broad white stones 
turned over upon its side, and left a square, gaping hole, 
through which streamed the light of a lantern. Over the 
edge there peeped a clean-cut, boyish face, which looked 
keenly about it, and then, with a hand on either side of 
the aperture, drew itself shoulder-high and waist-high, 
until one knee rested upon the edge. In another instant 
he stood at the side of the hole, and was hauling after him 
a companion, lithe and small like himself, with a pale face 
and a shock of very red hair. 

“It’s all clear,’ he whispered. “ Have you the chisel 
and the bags? Great Scott! Jump, Archie, jump, and [ll 
swing for it!” : 

Sherlock Holmes had sprung out and seized the intruder 
by the collar. The other dived down the hole, and I heard 
the sound of rending cloth as Jones clutched at his skirts. 
The light flashed upon the barrel of a revolver, but 
Holmes’s hunting crop came down on the man’s wrist, and 
the pistol clinked upon the stone floor. 

“It’s no use, John Clay,” said Holmes blandly, “ you 
have no chance at all.” 

“So I see,” the other answered, with the utmost cool- 
ness. “TI fancy that my pal is all right, though I see you 
have got his coat-tails.” 

“There are three men waiting for him at the door,” said 
Holmes. 

“Oh, indeed. You seem to have done the thing very 
completely. I must compliment you.” 

“And I you,’ Holmes answered. “ Your red-headed 
idea was very new and effective.” 

“You'll see your pal again presently,” said Jones. ‘ He’s 
quicker at climbing down holes than J am. Just hold out 
while I fix the derbies.” 

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A. Conan Doyle 


“T beg that you will not touch me with your filthy 
hands,” remarked our prisoner, as the handcuffs clattered 
upon his wrists. “ You may not be aware that I have royal 
blood in my veins. Have the goodness also, when you ad- 
dress me, always to say ‘sir’ and ‘ please.’ ”’ 

ext right, ” said Jones, with a stare and a snigger. 
“Well, would you please, sir, march upstairs where 
we can get a oo to carry your highness to the police 
station? ” 

“That is better,” said John Clay serenely. He made a 
sweeping bow to the three of us, and walked quietly off 
in the custody of the detective. 

“Really, Mr. Holmes,” said Mr. Merryweather, as we 
followed them from the cellar, “I do not know how the 
bank can thank you or repay you. There is no doubt that 
you have detected and defeated in the most complete man- 
ner one of the most determined attempts at bank robbery 
that have ever come within my experience.” 

“T have had one or two little scores of my own to settle 
with Mr. John Clay,” said Holmes. “I have been at some 
small expense over this matter, which I shall expect the 
bank to refund, but beyond that I am amply repaid by 
having had an experience which is in many ways unique, 
and by hearing the very remarkable narrative of the Red- 
headed League.” 


“You see, Watson,” he explained, in the early hours of 
the morning, as we sat over a glass of whisky and soda in 
Baker Street, “it was perfectly obvious from the first that 
the only possible object of this rather fantastic business of 
the advertisement of the League, and the copying of the 
‘Encyclopedia,’ must be to get this not over-bright pawn- 
broker out of the way for a number of hours every day. 
It was a curious way of managing it, but really it would 
be difficult to suggest a better. The method was no doubt 
suggested to Clay’s ingenious mind by the color of his ac- 
complice’s hair. The four pounds a week was a lure which 
must draw him, and what was it to them, who were play- 

IIit 


Scotch Mystery Stories 


ing for thousands? They put in the advertisement, one 
rogue has the temporary office, the other rogue incites the 
man to apply for it, and together they manage to secure 
his absence every morning in the week. From the time 
that I heard of the assistant having come for half wages, 
it was obvious to me that he had some strong motive for 
securing the situation.” 

“ But how could you guess what the motive was?” 

“Had there been women in the house, I should have 
suspected a mere vulgar intrigue. That, however, was out 
of the question. The man’s business was a small one, and 
there was nothing in his house which could account for 
such elaborate preparations, and such an expenditure as 
they were at. It must then be something out of the house. 
What could it be? I thought of the assistant’s fondness 
for photography, and his trick of vanishing into the cellar. 
The cellar! There was the end of this tangled clew. Then 
I made inquiries as to this mysterious assistant, and found 
that I had to deal with one of the coolest and most dar- 
ing criminals in London. He was doing something in the 
cellar — something which took many hours a day for 
months on end. What could it be, once more? I could 
think of nothing save that he was running a tunnel to some 
other building. | 

“So far I had got when we went to visit the scene of 
action. I surprised you by beating upon the pavement 
with my stick. JI was ascertaining whether the cellar 
stretched out in front or behind. It was not in front. Then 
I rang the bell, and, as I hoped, the assistant answered 
it. We have had some skirmishes, but we had never set 
eyes upon each other before. I hardly looked at his face. 
His knees were what I wished to see. You must yourself 
have remarked how worn, wrinkled, and stained they were. 
They spoke of those hours of burrowing. The only re- 
maining point was what they were burrowing for. I walked 
round the corner, saw that the City and Suburban Bank 
abutted on our friend’s premises, and felt that I had solved 
my problem. When you drove home after the concert I 

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A. Conan Doyle 


called upon Scotland Yard, and upon the chairman of the 
bank directors, with the result that you have seen.” 

“And how could you tell that they would make their 
attempt to-night?” I asked. 

“Well, when they closed their League offices that was 
a sign that they cared no longer about Mr. Jabez Wilson’s 
presence; in other words, that they had completed their 
tunnel. But it was essential that they should use it soon, 
as it might be discovered, or the bullion might be removed. 
Saturday would suit them better than any other day, as 
it would give thém two days for their escape. For all these 
reasons I expected them to come to-night.” 

“You reasoned it out beautifully,” I exclaimed, in un- 
feigned admiration. “It is so long a chain, and yet every 
link rings true.” 

“Tt saved me from ennui,” he answered, yawning. 
“ Alas! I already feel it closing in upon me. My life is 
spent in one long effort to escape from the commonplaces 
of existence. These little problems help me to do so.” 

“And you are a benefactor of the race,” said I. He 
shrugged his shoulders. “ Well, perhaps, after all, it is of 
some little use,” he remarked. “‘L’homme c’est rien 
—l’ceuvre c’est tout,’ as Gustave Flaubert wrote to Georges 
Sands,” 


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Egerton Castle 
The Baron’s Quarry 


“OH, no, I assure you, you are not boring Mr. Marsh- 
field,” said this personage himself in his gentle voice 
—that curious voice that could flow on for hours, promul- 
gating profound and startling theories on every department 
of human knowledge or conducting paradoxical arguments 
without a single inflection or pause of hesitation. “I am, 
on the contrary, much interested in your hunting talk. To 
paraphrase a well-worn quotation somewhat widely, nihil — 
humanum ame alienum est. Even hunting stories may have 
their point of biological interest; the philologist sometimes 
pricks his ear to the jargon of the chase; moreover, I am 
not incapable of appreciating the subject matter itself. This 
seems to excite some derision. J admit I am not much of 
a sportsman to look at, nor, indeed, by instinct, yet I have 
had some out-of-the-way experiences in that line—gener- 
ally when intent on other pursuits. I doubt, for instance, if 
even you, Major Travers, notwithstanding your well-known 
exploits against man and beast, notwithstanding that doubt- 
ful smile of yours, could match the strangeness of a certain 
hunting adventure in which I played an important part.” 
The speaker’s small, deep-set, black eyes, that never 
warmed to anything more human than a purely speculative 
scientific interest in his surroundings, here wandered round 
the skeptical yet expectant circle with bland amusement. 
He stretched out his bloodless fingers for another of his 
host’s superfine cigars and proceeded, with only such in- 
terruptions as were occasioned by the lighting and careful 
smoking of the latter. 
“TI was returning home after my prolonged stay in Pe- 
tersburg, intending to linger on my way and test with mine 


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Egerton Castle 


own ears certain among the many dialects of Eastern Eu- 
rope—anent which there is a symmetrical little cluster of 
philological knotty points it is my modest intention one 
day to unravel. However, that is neither here nor there. 
On the road to Hungary I bethought myself opportunely 
of proving the once pressingly offered hospitality of the 
Baron Kossowski. 

“You may have met the man, Major Travers; he was 
a tremendous sportsman, if you like. I first came across 
him at McNeil’s place in remote Ireland. Now, being in 
Bukowina, within measurable distance of his Carpathian 
abode, and curious to see a Polish lord at home, I remem- 
bered his invitation. It was already of long standing, but 
it had been warm, born in fact of a sudden fit of enthusiasm 
for me”—here a half-mocking smile quivered an instant 
under the speaker’s black mustache—“ which, as it was 
characteristic, I may as well tell you about. 

“Tt was on the day of, or, rather, to be accurate, on the 
day after my arrival, toward the small hours of the morn- 
ing, in the smoking room at Rathdrum. Our host was 
peacefully snoring over his empty pipe and his seventh 
glass of whisky, also empty. The rest of the men had 
slunk off to bed. The baron, who all unknown to himself 
had been a subject of most interesting observation to me 
the whole evening, being now practically alone with me, 
condescended to turn an eye, as wide awake as a fox’s, 
albeit slightly bloodshot, upon the contemptible white-faced 
person who had preferred spending the raw hours over his 
papers, within the radius of a glorious fire’s warmth, to 
creeping slyly over treacherous quagmires in the pursuit 
of timid bog creatures (snipe shooting had been the order 
of the day)—the baron, I say, became aware of my exist- 
ence and entered into conversation with me. 

“He would no doubt have been much surprised could 
he have known that he was already mapped out, crani- 
ologically and physiognomically, catalogued with care and 
neatly laid by in his proper ethnological box, in my private 
type museum; that, as I sat and examined him from my 

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English Mystery Stories 


different coigns of vantage in library, in dining and smoking 
room that evening, not a look of his, not a gesture went 
forth but had significance for me. 

“You, I had thought, with your broad shoulders and 
deep chest ; your massive head that should have gone with 
a tall stature, not with those short sturdy limbs; with your 
thick red hair, that should have been black for that matter, 
as should your wide-set yellow eyes—you would be a real 
puzzle to one who did not recognize in you equal mixtures 
of the fair, stalwart and muscular Slav with the bilious- 
sanguine, thick-set, wiry Turanian. Your pedigree would 
no doubt bear me out: there is as much of the Magyar as 
of the Pole in your anatomy. Athlete, and yet a tangle of 
nerves; a ferocious brute at bottom, I dare say, for your 
broad forehead inclines to flatness; under your bristling 
beard your jaw must protrude, and the base of your skull | 
is ominously thick. And, with all that, capable of ideal 
transports: when that girl played and sang to-night I saw 
the swelling of your eyelid veins, and how that small, 
tenacious, claw-like hand of yours twitched! You would 
be a fine leader of men—but God help the wretches in your 
power! 

“So had I mused upon him. Yet I confess that when we 
came in closer contact with each other, even I was not 
proof against the singular courtesy of his manner and his 
unaccountable personal charm. 

“Our conversation soon grew interesting; to me as a 
matter of course, and evidently to him also. A few general 
words led to interchange of remarks upon the country we 
were both visitors in and so to national characteristics— 
Pole and Irishman have not a few in common, both in their 
nature and history. An observation which he made, not 
without a certain flash in his light eyes and a transient 
uncovering of the teeth, on the Irish type of female beauty 
suddenly suggested to me a stanza of an ancient Polish 
ballad, very full of milk-and-blood imagery, of alternating 
ferocity and voluptuousness. This I quoted to the as- 
tounded foreigner in the vernacular, and this it was that 

116 


Egerton Castle 


metamorphosed his mere perfection of civility into sudden 
warmth, and, in fact, procured me the invitation in ques- 
tion. 

“When I left Rathdrum the baron’s last words to me 
were that if I ever thought of visiting his country other- 
wise than in books, he held me bound to make Yany, his 
Galician seat, my headquarters of study. 

“From Czernowicz, therefore, where I stopped some 
time, I wrote, received in due time a few lines of prettily 
worded reply, and ultimately entered my sled in the nearest 
town to, yet at a most forbidding distance from, Yany, and 
started on my journey thither. 

“The undertaking meant many long hours of undula- 
tion and skidding over the November snow, to the som- 
niferous bell jangle of my dirty little horses, the only im- 
pression of interest being a weird gypsy concert I came in 
for at a miserable drinking-booth half buried in the snow 
where we halted for the refreshment of man and beast. 
Here, I remember, I discovered a very definite connection 
between the characteristic run of the tsimbol, the peculiar 
bite of the Zigeuner’s bow on his fiddle-string, and some 
distinctive points of Turanian tongues. In other countries, 
in Spain, for instance, your gypsy speaks differently on his 
instrument. But, oddly enough, when I later attempted to 
put this observation on paper I could find no word to ex- 
press it.” 

A few of our company evinced signs of sleepiness, but 
most of us who knew Marshfield, and that he could, un- 
less he had something novel to say, be as silent and retiring 
as he now evinced signs of being copious, awaited further 
developments with patience. He has his own deliberate 
way of speaking, which he evidently enjoys greatly, though 
it be occasionally trying to his listeners. 

“On the afternoon of my second day’s drive, the snow, 
which till then had fallen fine and continuous, ceased, and 
my Jehu, suddenly interrupting himself in the midst of 
some exciting wolf story quite in keeping with the time of 
year and the wild surroundings, pointed to a distant spot 


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English Mystery Stories 


against the gray sky to the northwest, between two wood- 
covered folds of ground—the first eastern spurs of the 
great Carpathian chain. 

“* "There stands. any," ‘said he. I looked at my far-off 
goal with interest. As we drew nearer, the sinking sun, 
just dipping behind the hills, tinged the now distinct front- 
age with a cold copper-like gleam, but it was only for a 
minute; the next the building became nothing more to the 
eye than a black irregular silhouette against the crimson 
sky. 

“ Before we entered the long, steep avenue of poplars, 
the early winter darkness was upon us, rendered all the 
more depressing by gray mists which gave a ghostly aspect 
to such objects as the sheen of the snow rendered visible. 
Once or twice there were feeble flashes of light looming in 
iridescent halos as we passed little clusters of hovels, but 
for which I should have been induced to fancy that the 
great Hof stood alone in the wilderness, such was the 
deathly stillness around. But even as the tall, square build- 
ing rose before us above the vapor, yellow lighted in 
various stories, and mighty in height and breadth, there 
broke upon my ear a deep-mouthed, menacing bay, which 
gave at once almost alarming reality to the eerie surround- 
ings. ‘His lordship’s boar and wolf hounds,’ quoth my 
charioteer calmly, unmindful of the regular pandemonium 
of howls and barks which ensued as he skillfully turned 
his horses through the gateway and flogged the tired beasts 
into a sort of shambling canter that we might land with 
glory before the house door: a weakness common, I be- 
lieve, to drivers of all nations. 

“T alighted in the court of honor, and while awaiting an 
answer to my tug at the bell, stood, broken with fatigue, 
depressed, chilled and aching, questioning the wisdom of 
my proceedings and the amount of comfort, physical and 
moral, that was likely to await me in a ¢éte-d-téte visit with 
a well-mannered savage in his own home. 

“The unkempt tribe of stable retainers who began to 
gather round me and my rough vehicle in the gloom, with 

118 


Egerton Castle 


their evil-smelling sheepskins and their resigned, battered 
visages, were not calculated to reassure me. Yet when the 
door opened, there stood a smart chasseur and a solemn 
major-domo who might but just have stepped out of May- 
fair; and there was displayed a spreading vista of warm, 
deep-colored halls, with here a statue and there a stuffed 
bear, and under foot pile carpets strewn with rarest skins. 

“ Marveling, yet comforted withal, I followed the solemn 
butler, who received me with the deference due to an 
expected guest and expressed the master’s regret for his 
enforced absence till dinner time. I traversed vast rooms, 
each more sumptuous than the last, feeling the strangeness 
of the contrast between the outer desolation and this syb- 
aritic excess of luxury growing ever more strongly upon 
me; caught a glimpse of a picture gallery, where peculiar 
yet admirably executed latter-day French pictures hung 
side by side with ferocious boar hunts of Snyder and such 
kin; and, at length, was ushered into a most cheerful room, 
modern to excess in its comfortable promise, where, in 
addition to the tall stove necessary for warmth, there burned 
on an open hearth a vastly pleasant fire of resinous logs, 
and where, on a low table, awaited me a dainty service of 
fragrant Russian tea. 

“My impression of utter novelty seemed somehow en- 
hanced by this unexpected refinement in the heart of the 
solitudes and in such a rugged shell, and yet, when I came 
to reflect, it was only characteristic of my cosmopolitan 
host. But another surprise was in store for me. 

“ When I had recovered bodily warmth and mental equi- 
librium in my downy armchair, before the roaring logs, 
and during the delicious absorption of my second glass of 
tea, I turned my attention to the French valet, evidently 
the baron’s own man, who was deftly unpacking my port- 
manteau, and who, unless my practiced eye deceived me, 
asked for nothing better than to entertain me with agree- 
able conversation the while. 

“Your master is out, then?’ quoth I, knowing that the 
most trivial remark would suffice to start him. 


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English Mystery Stories 


“True, Monseigneur was out; he was desolated in 
despair (this with the national amiable and imaginative in- 
stinct); ‘but it was doubtless important business. M. le 
Baron had the visit of his factor during the midday meal; 
had left the table hurriedly, and had not been seen since. 
Madame la Baronne had been a little suffering, but she 
would receive monsieur!’ 

““Madame!’ exclaimed I, astounded, ‘is your master 
then married ?—since when? ’—visions of a fair Tartar, fit 
mate for my baron, immediately springing somewhat al- 
luringly before my mental vision. But the answer dispelled 
the picturesque fancy. 

“* Oh, yes,’ said the man, with a somewhat peculiar ex- 
pression. ‘ Yes, Monseigneur is married. Did Monsieur 
not know? And yet it was from England that Monseigneur 
brought back his wife.’ 

“* An Englishwoman!’ 

“My first thought was one of pity; an Englishwoman 
alone in this wilderness—two days’ drive from even a rail- 
way station—and at the mercy of Kossowski! But the 
next minute I reversed my judgment. Probably she adored 
her rufous lord, took his veneer of courtesy—a veneer of 
the most exquisite polish, I grant you, but perilously thin 
—for the very perfection of chivalry. Or perchance it was 
his inner savageness itself that charmed her; the most re- 
fined women often amaze one by the fascination which the 
preponderance of the brute in the opposite sex seems to 
have for them. 

“T was anxious to hear more. 

““Ts it not dull for the lady here at this time of the 
year?’ 

“The valet raised his shoulders with a gesture of despair 
that was almost passionate. 

“Dull! Ah, monsieur could not conceive to himself the 
dullness of it. That poor Madame la Baronne! not even a 
little child to keep her company on the long, long days 
when there was nothing but snow in the heaven and on 
the earth and the howling of the wind and the dogs to 

I20 


Egerton Castle 


cheer her. At the beginning, indeed, it had been different; 
when the master first brought home his bride the house 
was gay enough. It was all redecorated and refurnished 
to receive her (monsieur should have seen it before, a mere 
rendezvous-de-chasse—for the matter of that so were all 
the country houses in these parts). Ah, that was the good 
time! There were visits month after month; parties, sleigh- 
ing, dancing, trips to St. Petersburg and Vienna. But this 
year it seemed they were to have nothing but boars and 
wolves. How madame could stand it—well, it was not for 
him to speak—and heaving a deep sigh he delicately in- 
serted my white tie round my collar, and with a flourish 
twisted it into an irreproachable bow beneath my chin. I 
did not think it right to cross-examine the willing talker 
any further, especially as, despite his last asseveration, 
there were evidently volumes he still wished to pour forth; 
but I confess that, as I made my way slowly out of my room 
along the noiseless length of passage, I was conscious of 
an unwonted, not to say vulgar, curiosity concerning the 
woman who had captivated such a man as the Baron Kos- 
sowski. 

“Tn a fit of speculative abstraction I must have taken 
the wrong turning, for I presently found myself in a long, 
narrow passage. I did not remember. I was retracing my 
steps when there came the sound of rapid footfalls upon 
stone flags; a little door flew open in the wall close to me, 
and a small, thick-set man, huddled in the rough sheep- 
skin of the Galician peasant, with a mangy fur cap on his 
head, nearly ran headlong into my arms. I was about con- 
descendingly to interpellate him in my best Polish, when I 
caught the gleam of an angry yellow eye and noted the 
bristle of a red beard—Kossowski! 

“ Amazed, I fell back a step in silence. With a growl 
like an uncouth animal disturbed, he drew his filthy cap 
over his brow with a savage gesture and pursued his way 
down the corridor at a sort of wild-boar trot. 

“ This first meeting between host and guest was so odd, 
so incongruous, that it afforded me plenty of food for a 

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English Mystery Stories 


fresh line of conjecture as I traced my way back to the 
picture gallery, and from thence successfully to the drawing- 
room, which, as the door was ajar, I could not this time 
mistake. 

“It was large and lofty and dimly lit by shaded lamps; 
through the rosy gloom I could at first only just make out 
a slender figure by the hearth; but as I advanced, this was 
resolved into a singularly graceful woman in clinging, fur- 
trimmed velvet gown, who, with one hand resting on the 
high mantelpiece, the other hanging listlessly by her side, 
stood gazing down at the crumbling wood fire as if in a 
dream. 

“My friends are kind enough to say that I have a cat- 
like tread; I know not how that may be; at any rate the 
carpet I was walking upon was thick enough to smother 
a heavier footfall: not until I was quite close to her did 
my hostess become aware of my presence. Then she started 
violently and looked over her shoulder at me with dilating 
eyes. Evidently a nervous creature, I saw the pulse in 
her throat, strained by her attitude, flutter like a terrified 
bird. 

“The next instant she had stretched out her hand with 
sweet English words of welcome, and the face, which I 
had been comparing in my mind to that of Guido’s Cenci, 
became transformed by the arch and exquisite smile of a 
Greuse. For more than two years I had had no intercourse 
with any of my nationality. I could conceive the sound of 
his native tongue under such circumstances moving a man 
in a curious unexpected fashion. 

“T babbled some commonplace reply, after which there 
was silence while we stood opposite each other, she look- 
ing at me expectantly. At length, with a sigh checked by 
a smile and an overtone of sadness in a voice that yet tried 
to be sprightly: 

“* Am I then so changed, Mr. Marshfield?’ she asked. 
And all at once I knew her: the girl whose nightingale 
throat had redeemed the desolation of the evenings at Rath- 
drum, whose sunny beauty had seemed (even to my cele- 

122 


Egerton Castle 


brated cold-blooded zstheticism) worthy to haunt a man’s 
dreams. Yes, there was the subtle curve of the waist, the 
warm line of throat, the dainty foot, the slender tip-tilted 
fingers—witty fingers, as I had classified them—which I 
now shook like a true Briton, instead of availing myself of 
the privilege the country gave me, and kissing her slender 
wrist. 

“But she was changed; and I told her so with uncon- 
ventional frankness, studying her closely as I spoke. 

“*T am afraid,’ I said gravely, ‘that this place does not 
agree with you.’ 

“She shrank from my scrutiny with a nervous move- 
ment and flushed to the roots of her red-brown hair. Then 
she answered coldly that I was wrong, that she was in 
excellent health, but that she could not expect any more 
than other people to preserve perennial youth (I rapidly 
calculated she might be two-and-twenty), though, indeed, 
with a little forced laugh, it was scarcely flattering to 
hear one had altered out of all recognition. Then, with- 
out allowing me time to reply, she plunged into a general 
topic of conversation which, as I should have been obtuse 
indeed not to take the hint, I did my best to keep up. 

“ But while she talked of Vienna and Warsaw, of her 
distant neighbors, and last year’s visitors, it was evident 
that her mind was elsewhere; her eye wandered, she lost 
the thread of her discourse, answered me at random, and 
smiled her piteous smile incongruously. 

“However lonely she might be in her solitary splendor, 
the company of a countryman was evidently no such wel- 
come diversion. 

“After a little while she seemed to feel herself that she 
was lacking in cordiality, and, bringing her absent gaze 
to bear upon me with a puzzled strained look: ‘I fear 
you will find it very dull,’ she said, ‘my husband is so 
wrapped up this winter in his country life and his sport. 
You are the first visitor we have had. There is nothing 
but guns and horses here, and you do not care for these 
things.’ 

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“The door creaked behind us; and the baron entered, in 
faultless evening dress. Before she turned toward him 
I was sharp enough to catch again the upleaping of a quick 
dread in her eyes, not even so much dread perhaps, I 
thought afterwards, as horror—the horror we notice in 
some animals at the nearing of a beast of prey. It was 
gone in a second, and she was smiling. But it was a 
revelation. 

“Perhaps he beat her in Russian fashion, and she, as 
an Englishwoman, was narrow-minded enough to resent 
this; or perhaps, merely, I had the misfortune to arrive 
during a matrimonial misunderstanding. 

“ The baron would not give me leisure to reflect; he was 
so very effusive in his greeting—not a hint of our pre- 
vious meeting—unlike my hostess, all in all to me; eager 
to listen, to reply; almost affectionate, full of references to 
old times and genial allusions. No doubt when he chose 
he could be the most charming of men; there were mo- 
ments when, looking at him in his quiet smile and re- 
strained gesture, the almost exaggerated politeness of his 
manner to his wife, whose fingers he had kissed with pretty, 
old-fashioned gallantry upon his entrance, I asked myself, 
Could that encounter in the passage have been a dream? 
Could that savage in the sheepskin be my courteous enter- 
tainer ? 

“Just as I came in, did I hear my wife say there was 
nothing for you to do in this place?’ he said presently 
to me. . Then, turning to her: 

“*You do not seem to know Mr. Marshfield. Wherever 
he can open his eyes there is for him something to see 
which might not interest other men. He will find things 
in my library which I have no notion of. He will dis- 
cover objects for scientific observation in all the members 
of my household, not only in the good-looking maids— 
though he could, I have no doubt, tell their points as I 
could those of a horse. We have maidens here of several 
distinct races, Marshfield. We have also witches, and Jew 
leeches, and holy daft people. In any case, Yany, with 

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all its dependencies, material, male and female, are at your 
disposal, for what you can make out of them. 

“Tt is good,’ he went on gayly, ‘that you should hap- 
pen to have this happy disposition, for I fear that, no later 
than to-morrow, I may have to absent myself from home. 
I have heard that there are news of wolves—they threaten 
to be a greater pest than usual this winter, but I am going 
to drive them on quite a new plan, and it will go hard 
with me if I don’t come even with them. Well for you, 
by the way, Marshfield, that you did not pass within their 
scent to-day.’ Then, musingly: ‘I should not give much 
for the life of a traveler who happened to wander in these 
parts just now.’ Here he interrupted himself hastily and 
went over to his wife, who had sunk back on her chair, 
livid, seemingly on the point of swooning. 

“His gaze was devouring; so might a man look at the 
woman he adored, in his anxiety. 

“* What! faint, Violet, alarmed!’ His voice was sub- 
dued, yet there was an unmistakable thrill of emotion in it. 

“¢“ Pshaw!’ thought I to myself, ‘the man is a model 
husband.’ 

“She clinched her hands, and by sheer force of will 
seemed to pull herself together. These nervous women 
have often an unexpected fund of strength. 

“* Come, that is well,’ said the baron with a flickering 
smile; ‘Mr. Marshfield will think you but badly acclima- 
tized to Poland if a little wolf scare can upset you. My 
dear wife is so soft-hearted,’ he went on to me, ‘that she 
is capable of making herself quite ill over the sad fate 
that might have, but has not, overcome you. Or, per- 
haps,’ he added, in a still gentler voice, ‘her fear is that 
I may expose myself to danger for the public weal.’ 

“She turned her head away, but I saw her set her teeth 
as if to choke a sob. The baron chuckled in his throat 
and seemed to luxuriate in the pleasant thought. 

“At this moment folding doors were thrown open, and 
supper was announced. I offered my arm, she rose and 
took it in silence. This silence she maintained during the 

| 125 


English Mystery Stories 


first part of the meal, despite her husband’s brilliant con- 
versation and almost uproarious spirits. But by and by a 
bright color mounted to her cheeks and luster to her eyes. 
I suppose you will think me horribly unpoetical if I add 
that she drank several glasses of champagne one after the 
other, a fact which perhaps may account for the change. 

“At any rate she spoke and laughed and looked lovely, 
and I did not wonder that the baron could hardly keep his 
eyes off her. But whether it was her wifely anxiety or 
not—it was evident her mind was not at ease through it 
all, and I fancied that her brightness was feverish, her 
merriment slightly hysterical. 

“ After supper—an exquisite one it was—we adjourned 
together, in foreign fashion, to the drawing-room; the 
baron threw himself into a chair and, somewhat with the | 
air of a pasha, demanded music. He was flushed; the 
veins of his forehead were swollen and stood out like 
cords; the wine drunk at table was potent: even through 
my phlegmatic frame it ran hotly. 

“She hesitated a moment or two, then docilely sat down 
to the piano. That she could sing I have already made 
clear: how she could sing, with what pathos, passion, as 
well as perfect art, I had never realized before. 

“When the song was ended she remained for a while, 
with eyes lost in distance, very still, save for her quick 
breathing. It was clear she was moved by the music; in- 
deed she must have thrown her whole soul into it. 

“ At first we, the audience, paid her the rare compliment 
of silence. Then the baron broke forth into loud applause. 
‘Brava, brava! that was really said con amore. A deli- 
cious love song, delicious—but French! You must sing 
one of our Slav melodies for Marshfield before you allow 
us to go and smoke.’ 

“‘ She started from her reverie with a flush, and after a 
pause struck slowly a few simple chords, then began one 
of those strangely sweet, yet intensely pathetic Russian 
airs, which give one a curious revelation of the profound, 
endless melancholy lurking in the national mind. 

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Egerton Castle . 


“* What do you think of it?’ asked the baron of me 
when it ceased. 

“« What I have always thought of such music—it is that 
of a hopeless people; poetical, crushed, and resigned.’ 

“He gave a loud laugh. ‘ Hear the analyst, the psycho- 
logue—why, man, it is a love song! Is it possible that we, 
uncivilized, are truer realists than our hypercultured West- 
ern neighbors? Have we gone to the root of the matter, 
in our simple way?’ 

“The baroness got up abruptly. She looked white and 
spent; there were bister circles round her eyes. 

“*T am tired,’ she said, with dry lips. ‘ You will excuse 
me, Mr. Marshfield, I must really go to bed.’ 

“*Go to bed, go to bed,’ cried her husband gayly. 
Then, quoting in Russian from the song she had just sung: 
‘Sleep, my little soft white dove: my little innocent tender 
lamb!’ She hurried from the room. The baron laughed 
again, and, taking me familiarly by the arm, led me to his 
own set of apartments for the promised smoke. He en- 
sconced me in an armchair, placed cigars of every descrip- 
tion and a Turkish pipe ready to my hand, and a little table 
on which stood cut-glass flasks and beakers in tempting 
array. 

“ After I had selected my cigar with some precautions, 
I glanced at him over a careless remark, and was startled 
to see a sudden alteration in his whole look and attitude. 

“* You will forgive me, Marshfield,’ he said, as he caught 
my eye, speaking with spasmodic politeness. ‘It is more 
than probable that I shall have to set out upon this chase 
I spoke of to-night, and I must now go and change my 
clothes, that I may be ready to start at any moment. This 
is the hour when it is most likely these hell beasts are to 
be got at. You have all you want, I hope,’ interrupting 
an outbreak of ferocity by an effort after his former cour- 
tesy. 

“It was curious to watch the man of the world strug- 
gling with the primitive man. 

“* But, baron,’ said I, ‘I do not at all see the fun of 

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Enghsh Mystery Stories 


sticking at home like this. You know my passion for wit- 
nessing everything new, strange, and outlandish. You will 
surely not refuse me such an opportunity for observation 
as a midnight wolf raid. I will do my best not to be in 
the way if you will take me with you.’ 

“ At first it seemed as if he had some difficulty in realiz- 
ing the drift of my words, he was so engrossed by some 
inner thought. But as I repeated them, he gave vent to 
a loud cachinnation. 

“¢ By heaven! I like your spirit,’ he exclaimed, clapping 
me strongly on the shoulder. ‘Of course you shall come. 
‘You shall,’ he repeated, ‘and I promise you a sight, a hunt 
such as you never heard or dreamed of—you will be able 
to tell them in England the sort of thing we can do here 
in that line—such wolves are rare quarry,’ he added, look- 
ing slyly at me, ‘and I have a new plan for getting at - 
them.’ 

“There was a long pause, and then there rose in the 
stillness the unearthly howling of the baron’s hounds, a 
cheerful sound which only their owner’s somewhat loud 
converse of the evening had kept from becoming ex- 
cessively obtrusive. 

“* Hark at them—the beauties!’ cried he, showing his 
short, strong teeth, pointed like a dog’s in a wide grin of 
anticipative delight. ‘They have been kept on pretty short 
commons, poor things! They are hungry. By the way, 
Marshfield, you can sit tight to a horse, I trust? If you 
were to roll off, you know, these splendid fellows—they 
would chop you up ina second. They would chop you up,’ 
he repeated unctuously, ‘snap, crunch, gobble, and there 
would be an end of you!’ 

““Tf I could not ride a decent horse without being 
thrown,’ I retorted, a little stung by his manner, ‘after my 
recent three months’ torture with the Guard Cossacks, I 
should indeed be a hopeless subject. Do not think of 
frightening me from the exploit, but say frankly if my com- 
pany would be displeasing.’ 

“*Tut!’ he said, waving his hand impatiently, ‘it is your 

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Egerton Castle 


affair. I have warned you. Go and get ready if you want 
to come. Time presses.’ 

“TI was determined to be of the fray; my blood was up. 
I have hinted that the baron’s Tokay had stirred it. 

“IT went to my room and hurriedly donned clothes more 
suitable for rough night work. My last care was to slip 
into my pockets a brace of double-barreled pistols which 
formed part of my traveling kit. When I returned I found 
the baron already booted and spurred; this without meta- 
phor. He was stretched full length on the divan, and did 
not speak as I came in, or even look at me. Chewing an 
unlit cigar, with eyes fixed on the ceiling, he was evidently 
following some absorbing train of ideas. 

“The silence was profound; time went by; it grew op- 
pressive ; at length, wearied out, I fell, over my chibouque, 
into a doze filled with puzzling visions, out of which I was 
awakened with a start. My companion had sprung up, 
very lightly, to his feet. In his throat was an odd, half- 
suppressed cry, grewsome to hear. He stood on tiptoe, 
with eyes fixed, as though looking through the wall, and 
I distinctly saw his ears point in the intensity of his lis- 
tening. 

“After a moment, with hasty, noiseless energy, and with- 
out the slightest ceremony, he blew the lamps out, drew 
back the heavy curtains and threw the tall window wide 
open. A rush of icy air, and the bright rays of the moon 
—gibbous, I remember, in her third quarter—filled the 
room. Outside the mist had condensed, and the view was 
unrestricted over the white plains at the foot of the hill. 

“The baron stood motionless in the open window, cal- 
lous to the cold in which, after a minute, I could hardly 
keep my teeth from chattering, his head bent forward, still 
listening. I listened too, with ‘all my ears,’ but could not 
catch a sound; indeed the silence over the great expanse 
of snow might have been called awful; even the dogs were 
mute. 

“Presently, far, far away, came a faint tinkle of bells; 
so faint, at first, that I thought it was but fancy, then dis- 

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English Mystery Stortes 


tincter. It was even more eerie than the silence, I thought, 
though I knew it could come but from some passing sleigh. 
All at once that ceased,.and again my duller senses could 
perceive nothing, though I saw by my host’s craning neck 
that he was more on the alert than ever. But at last I 
too heard once more, this time not bells, but as it were the 
tread of horses muffled by the snow, intermittent and dull, 
yet drawing nearer. And then in the inner silence of the 
great house it seemed to me I| caught the noise of closing 
doors; but here the hounds, as if suddenly becoming alive 
to some disturbance, raised the same fearsome concert of 
yells and barks with which they had greeted my arrival, 
and listening became useless. 

“T had risen to my feet. My host, turning from the win- 
dow, seized my shoulder with a fierce grip, and bade me 
“hold my noise’; for a second or two I stood motionless 
under his iron talons, then he released me with an ex- 
ultant whisper: “ Now for our chase!” and made for the 
door with a spring. Hastily gulping down a mouthful of 
arrack from one of the bottles on the table, I followed him, 
and, guided by the sound of his footsteps before me, groped 
my way through passages as black as Erebus. 

“ After a time, which seemed a long one, a small door 
was flung open in front, and I saw Kossowski glide into 
the moonlit courtyard and cross the square. When I too 
came out he was disappearing into the gaping darkness 
of the open stable door, and there I overtook him. 

““A man who seemed to have been sleeping in a corner 
jumped up at our entrance, and led out a horse ready 
saddled. In obedience to a gruff order from his master, 
as the latter mounted, he then brought forward another 
which he had evidently thought to ride himself and held 
the stirrup for me. 

“We came delicately forth, and the Cossack hurriedly 
barred the great door behind us. I caught a glimpse of 
his worn, scarred face by the moonlight, as he peeped after 
us for a second before shutting himself in; it was stricken 
with terror. 

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Egerton Castle 


“The baron trotted briskly toward the kennels, from 
whence there was now issuing a truly infernal clangor, and, 
as my steed followed suit of his own accord, I could see 
how he proceeded dexterously to unbolt the gates with- 
out dismounting, while the beasts within dashed them- 
selves against them and tore the ground in their fury of 
impatience. 

“He smiled, as he swung back the barriers at last, and 
his ‘beauties’ came forth. Seven or eight monstrous 
brutes, hounds of a kind unknown to me: fulvous and sleek 
of coat, tall on their legs, square-headed, long-tailed, deep- 
chested; with terrible jaws slobbering in eagerness. They 
leaped around and up at us, much to our horses’ distaste. 
Kossowski, still smiling, lashed at them unsparingly with 
his hunting whip, and they responded, not with yells of 
pain, but with snarls of fury. 

“Managing his restless steed and his cruel whip with 
consummate ease, my host drove the unruly crew before 
him out of the precincts, then halted and bent down from 
his saddle to examine some slight prints in the snow which 
led, not the way I had come, but toward what seemed an- 
other avenue. In a second or two the hounds were 
gathered round this spot, their great snake-like tails 
quivering, nose to earth, yelping with excitement. I had 
some ado to manage my horse, and my eyesight was far 
from being as keen as the baron’s, but I had then no doubt 
he had come already upon wolf tracks, and I shuddered 
mentally, thinking of the sleigh bells. 

“Suddenly Kossowski raised himself from his strained 
position; under his low fur cap his face, with its fixed 
smile, looked scarcely human in the white light: and then 
we broke into a hand canter just as the hounds dashed, 
in a compact body, along the trail. 

“But we had not gone more than a few hundred yards 
before they began to falter, then straggled, stopped and ran 
back and about with dismal cries. It was clear to me they 
had lost the scent. My companion reined in his horse, and 
mine, luckily a well-trained brute, halted of himself. 

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Enghsh Mystery Stories 


“We had reached a bend in a broad avenue of firs and 
larches, and just where we stood, and where the hounds 
ever returned and met nose to nose in frantic conclave, 
the snow was trampled and soiled, and a little farther on 
planed in a great sweep, as if by a turning sleigh. Beyond 
was a double-furrowed track of skaits and regular hoof 
prints leading far away. 

“ Before I had time to reflect upon the bearing of this 
unexpected interruption, Kossowski, as if suddenly pos- 
sessed by a devil, fell upon the hounds with his whip, flog- 
ging them upon the new track, uttering the while the 
most savage cries I have ever heard issue from human 
throat. The disappointed beasts were nothing loath to 
seize upon another trail; after a second of hesitation they 
had understood, and were off upon it at a tearing pace 
we after them at the best speed of our horses. 

“Some unformed idea that we were going to escort, or 
rescue, benighted travelers flickered dimly in my mind as 
I galloped through the night air; but when I managed 
to approach my companion and called out to him for ex- 
planation, he only turned half round and grinned at me. 

“ Before us lay now the white plain, scintillating under 
the high moon’s rays. That light is deceptive; I could be 
sure of nothing upon the wide expanse but of the dark, 
leaping figures of the hounds already spread out in a strag- 
gling line, some right ahead, others just in front of us. In 
a short time also the icy wind, cutting my face mercilessly 
as we increased our pace, well nigh blinded me with tears 
of cold. 

“T can hardly realize how long this pursuit after an 
unseen prey lasted; I can only remember that I was getting 
rather faint with fatigue, and ignominiously held on to my 
pommel, when all of a sudden the black outline of a sleigh 
merged into sight in front of us. 

“TI rubbed my smarting eyes with my benumbed hand; 
we were gaining upon it second by second; two of those 
hell hounds of the baron’s were already within a few leaps 
of it. 

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Egerton Castle 


“Soon I was able to make out two figures, ene standing 
up and urging the horses on with whip and voice, the ether 
clinging to the back seat and looking toward us in an atti- 
tude of terror. A great fear crept into my half-frozen 
brain—were we not bringing deadly danger instead of help 
to these travelers? Great God! did the baron mean to use 
them as a bait for his new method of wolf hunting? 

“T would have turned upon Kossowski with a cry of 
expostulation or warning, but he, urging on his hounds 
as he galloped on their flank, howling and gesticulating like 
a veritable Hun, passed me by like a flash—and all at once 
I knew.” 

Marshfield paused for a moment and sent his pale smile 
round upon his listeners, who now showed no signs of 
sleepiness ; he knocked the ash from his cigar, twisted the 
latter round in his mouth, and added dryly: 

“And I confess it seemed to me a little strong even for 
a baron in the Carpathians. The travelers were our quarry. 
But the reason why the Lord of Yany had turned man- 
hunter I was yet to learn. Just then I had to direct my 
energies to frustrating his plans. I used my spurs merci- 
lessly. While I drew up even with him I saw the two 
figures in the sleigh change places; he who had hitherto 
driven now faced back, while his companion took the reins; 
there was the pale blue sheen of a revolver barrel under 
the moonlight, followed by a yellow flash, and the nearest 
hound rolled over in the snow. 

“With an oath the baron twisted round in his saddle to 
call up and urge on the remainder. My horse had taken 
fright at the report and dashed irresistibly forward, bring- 
ing me at once almost level with the fugitives, and the 
next instant the revolver was turned menacingly toward 
me. There was no time to explain; my pistol was already 
drawn, and as another of the brutes bounded up, almost 
under my horse’s feet, I loosed it upon him. I must have 
let off both barrels at once, for the weapon flew out of 
my hand, but the hound’s back was broken. I presume 
the traveler understood; at any rate, he did not fire at me. 


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English Mystery Stories 


“In moments of intense excitement like these, strangely 
enough, the mind is extraordinarily open to impressions. 
I shall never forget that man’s countenance in the sledge, 
as he stood upright and defied us in his mortal danger; it 
was young, very handsome, the features not distorted, but 
set into a sort of desperate, stony calm, and I knew it, be- 
yond all doubt, for that of an Englishman. And then I 
saw his companion—it was the baron’s wife. And I under- 
stood why the bells had been removed. 

“It takes a long time to say this; it only required an 
instant to see it. The loud explosion of my pistol had 
hardly ceased to ring before the baron, with a fearful im- 
precation, was upon me. First he lashed at me with his 
whip as we tore along side by side, and then I saw him 
wind the reins round his off arm and bend over, and I 
felt his angry fingers close tightly on my right foot. The 
next instant I should have been lifted out of my saddle, 
but there came another shot from the sledge. The baron’s 
horse plunged and stumbled, and the baron, hanging on 
to my foot with a fierce grip, was wrenched from his seat. 
His horse, however, was up again immediately, and I was 
released, and then I caught a confused glimpse of the fright- 
ened and wounded animal galloping wildly away to the 
right, leaving a black track of blood behind him in the snow, 
his master, entangled in the reins, running with incredible 
swiftness by his side and endeavoring to vault back into 
the saddle. 

“And now came to pass a terrible thing which, in his 
savage plans, my host had doubtless never anticipated. 

“One of the hounds that had during this short check 
recovered lost ground, coming across this hot trail of blood, 
turned away from his course, and with a joyous yell darted 
after the running man. In another instant the remainder 
of the pack was upon the new scent. 

“As soon as I could stop my horse, I tried to turn him 
in the direction the new chase had taken, but just then, 
through the night air, over the receding sound of the 
horse’s scamper and the sobbing of the pack in full cry, 


134 


Egerton Castle 


there came a long scream, and after that a sickening silence. 
And I knew that somewhere yonder, under the beautiful 
moonlight, the Baron Kossowski was being devoured by his 
starving dogs. 

“T looked round, with the sweat on my face, vaguely, 
for some human being to share the horror of the moment, 
and I saw, gliding away, far away in the white distance, 
the black silhouette of the sledge.” 

“Well?” said we, in divers tones of impatience, curios- 
ity, or horror, according to our divers temperaments, as 
the speaker uncrossed his legs and gazed at us in mild tri- 
umph, with all the air of having said his say, and satis- 
factorily proved his point. 

“ Well,” repeated he, “ what more do you want to know? 
It will interest you but slightly, I am sure, to hear how I 
found my way back to the Hof; or how I told as much as 
I deemed prudent of the evening’s grewsome work to the 
baron’s servants, who, by the way, to my amazement, dis- 
played the profoundest and most unmistakable sorrow at 
the tidings, and sallied forth (at their head the Cossack 
who had seen us depart) to seek for his remains. Excuse 
the unpleasantness of the remark: I fear the dogs must 
have left very little of him, he had dieted them so carefully. 
However, since it was to have been a case of ‘ chop, crunch, 
and gobble,’ as the baron had it, I preferred that that par- 
ticular fate should have overtaken him rather than me—or, 
for that matter, either of those two country people of ours 
in the sledge. 

“ Nor am I going to inflict upon you,” continued Marsh- 
field, after draining his glass, “a full account of my im- 
pressions when I found myself once more in that immense, 
deserted, and stricken house, so luxuriously prepared for 
the mistress who had fled from it; how I philosophized over 
all this, according to my wont; the conjectures I made as to 
the first acts of the drama; the untold sufferings my coun- 
trywoman must have endured from the moment her hus- 
band first grew jealous till she determined on this desperate 
step; as to how and when she had met her lover. how they 


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English Mystery Stories 


communicated, and how the baron had discovered the in- 
tended flitting in time to concoct his characteristic revenge. 

“One thing you may be sure of, I had no mind to remain 
at Yany an hour longer than necessary. I even contrived 
to get well clear of the neighborhood before the lady’s ab- 
sence was discovered. Luckily for me—or I might have 
been taxed with connivance, though indeed the simple 
household did not seem to know what suspicion was, and 
accepted my account with childlike credence—very typical, 
and very convenient to me at the same time.” 

“ But how do you know,” said one of us, “that the man 
was her lover? He might have been her brother or some 
other relative.” 

“That,” said Marshfield, with his little flat laugh, “I 
happen to have ascertained—and, curiously enough, only a 
few weeks ago. It was at the play, between the acts, from 
my comfortable seat (the first row in the pit). I was look- 
ing leisurely round the house when I caught sight of a 
woman, in a box close by, whose head was turned from 
me, and who presented the somewhat unusual spectacle of 
a young neck and shoulders of the most exquisite contour 
—and perfectly gray hair; and not dull gray, but rather of 
a pleasing tint like frosted silver. This aroused my curios- 
ity. I brought my glasses to a focus on her and waited 
patiently till she turned round. Then I recognized the 
Baroness Kassowski, and I no longer wondered at the 
young hair being white. 

“Yet she looked placid and happy ; strangely so, it 
seemed to me, under the sudden reviving in my memory 

of such seenes as I have now described. But presently I 
understood further: beside her, in close attendance, was 
the man of the sledge, a handsome fellow with much of a 
military air about him. 

“During the course of the evening, as I watched, I saw 
a friend of mine come into the box, and at the end I slipped 
out into the passage to catch him as he came out. 

““Who is the woman with the white hair?’ I asked. 
Then, in the fragmentary style approved of by ultra-fash- 


136 


Egerton Castile 


ionable young men—this earnest-languid mode of speech 
presents curious similarities in all languages—he told me: 
‘Most charming couple in London—awfully pretty, wasn’t 
she?—he had been in the Guards—attaché at Vienna once 
—they adored each other. White hair, devilish queer, 
wasn’t it? Suited her, somehow. And then she had been 
married to a Russian, or something, somewhere in the wilds, 
and their names were— But do you know,” said Marsh- 
field, interrupting himself, “I think I had better let you 
find that out for yourselves, if you care.” 


137 


Stanley J. Weyman 
The Fowl in the Pot 


An Episode Adapted from the Memoirs of Maximilian de 
Bethune, Duke of Sully 


HAT I am going to relate may seem to some merely 
to be curious and on a party with the diverting story 
of M. Boisrosé, which I have set down in an earlier part 
of my memoirs. But among the calumnies of those who — 
have never ceased to attack me since the death of the late 
king, the statement that I kept from his majesty things 
which should have reached his ears has always had a 
prominent place, though a thousand times refuted by my 
friends, and those who from an intimate acquaintance with 
events could judge how faithfully I labored to deserve the 
confidence with which my master honored me. Therefore, 
I take it in hand to show by an example, trifling in itself, 
the full knowledge of affairs which the king had, and to 
prove that in many matters, which were never permitted 
to become known to the idlers of the court, he took a per- 
sonal share, worthy as much of Haroun as of Alexander. 
It was my custom, before I entered upon those negotia- 
tions with the Prince of Condé which terminated in the 
recovery of the estate of Villebon, where I now principally 
reside, to spend a part of the autumn and winter at Rosny. 
On these occasions I was in the habit of leaving Paris with 
a considerable train of Swiss, pages, valets, and grooms, 
together with the maids of honor and waiting women of 
the duchess. We halted to take dinner at Poissy, and 
generally contrived to reach Rosny toward nightfall, so 
as to sup by the light of flambeaux in a manner enjoy- 
able enough, though devoid of that state which I have ever 
138 


- Stanley J. Weyman 


maintained, and enjoined upon my children, as at once the 
privilege and burden of rank. 

At the time of which I am speaking I had for my favorite 
charger the sorrel horse which the Duke of Mercceur pre- 
sented to me with a view to my good offices at the time 
of the king’s entry into Paris; and which I honestly trans- 
ferred to his majesty in accordance with a principle laid 
down in another place. The king insisted on returning 
it to me, and for several years I rode it on these annual 
visits to Rosny. What was more remarkable was that on 
each of these occasions it cast a shoe about the middle of 
the afternoon, and always when we were within a short 
league of the village of Aubergenville. Though I never 
had with me less than half a score of led horses, I had 
such an affection for the sorrel that I preferred to wait 
until it was shod, rather than accommodate myself to a 
nag of less easy paces; and would allow my household to 
precede me, staying behind myself with at most a guard 
or two, my valet, and a page. 

The forge at Aubergenville was kept by a smith of some 
skill, a cheerful fellow, whom I always remembered to re- 
ward, considering my own position rather than his services, 
with a gold livre. His joy at receiving what was to him 
the income of a year was great, and never failed to re- 
imburse me; in addition to which I took some pleasure 
in unbending, and learning from this simple peasant and 
loyal man, what the taxpayers were saying of me and my 
reforms—a duty I always felt I owed to the king my 
master. 

As a man of breeding it would ill become me to set 
down the homely truths I thus learned. The conversations 
of the vulgar are little suited to a nobleman’s memoirs; 
but in this I distinguish between the Duke of Sully and 
the king’s minister, and it is in the latter capacity that I 
relate what passed on these diverting occasions. ‘“ Ho, 
Simon,” I would say, encouraging the poor man as he 
came bowing and trembling before me, “ how goes it, my 
friend?” 

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“ Badly,” he would answer, “very badly until your lord- 
ship came this way.” 

“ And how is that, little man?” 

“Oh, it is the roads,’ he always replied, shaking his 
bald head as he began to set about his business. “ The 
roads since your lordship became surveyor-general are so 
good that not one horse in a hundred casts a shoe; and 
then there are so few highwaymen now that not one rob- 
ber’s plates do I replace in atwelvemonth. There is where 
4 ae 

At this I was highly delighted. 

“Still, since I began to pass this way times have not 
been so bad with you, Simon,” I would answer. 

Thereto he had one invariable reply. 

“No; thanks to Ste. Geneviéve and your lordship, whom 
we call in this village the poor man’s friend, I have a fowl 
in the pot.” 

This phrase so pleased me that I repeated it to the 
king. It tickled his fancy also, and for some years it was 
a very common remark of that good and great ruler, that 
he hoped to live to see every peasant with a fowl in his 
pot. 

“But why,” I remember I once asked this honest fellow 
—it was on the last occasion of the sorrel falling lame 
there—“‘ do you thank Ste. Geneviéve? ” 

“She is my patron saint,” he answered. 

“Then you are a Parisian?”’ 

“Your lordship is always right.” 

“But does her saintship do you any good?” I asked 
curiously. 

“Certainly, by your lordship’s leave. My wife prays to 
her and she loosens the nails in the sorrel’s shoes.” 

“In fact she pays off an old grudge,” I answered, “ for 
there was a time when Paris liked me little; but hark ye, 
master smith, I am not sure that this is not an act of 
treason to conspire with Madame Geneviéve against the 
comfort of the king’s minister. What think you, you ras- 
cal; can you pass the justice elm without a shiver?” 

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Stanley J. Weyman 


This threw the simple fellow into a great fear, which the 
sight of the livre of gold speedily converted into joy as 
stupendous. Leaving him still staring at his fortune I 
rode away; but when we had gone some little distance, 
the aspect of his face, when I charged him with treason, 
or my own unassisted discrimination suggested a clew to 
the phenomenon. 

“La Trape,” I said to my valet—the same who was with 
me at Cahors—‘“ what is the name of the innkeeper at 
Poissy, at whose house we are accustomed to dine?” 

“Andrew, may it please your lordship.” 

“Andrew! I thought so!” I exclaimed, smiting my 
thigh. “Simon and Andrew his brother! Answer, knave, 
and, if you have permitted me to be robbed these many 
times, tremble for your ears. Is he not brother to the 
smith at Aubergenville who has just shod my horse?” 

La Trape professed to be ignorant on this point, but a 
groom who had stayed behind with me, having sought my 
permission to speak, said it was so, adding that Master 
Andrew had risen in the world through large dealings in 
hay, which he was wont to take daily into Paris and sell, 
and that he did not now acknowledge or see anything of 
his brother the smith, though it was believed that he re- 
tained a sneaking liking for him. 

On receiving this confirmation of my suspicions, my 
vanity as well as my sense of justice led me to act with 
the promptitude which I have exhibited in greater emer- 
gencies. I rated La Trape for his carelessness of my in- 
terests in permitting this deception to be practiced on me; 
and the main body of my attendants being now in sight, 
I ordered him to take two Swiss and arrest both brothers 
without delay. It wanted yet three hours of sunset, and 
I judged that, by hard riding, they might reach Rosny with 
their prisoners before bedtime. 

I spent some time while still on the road in considering 
what punishment I should inflict on the culprits; and finally 
laid aside the purpose I had at first conceived of putting 
them to death—an infliction they had richly deserved— 


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English Mystery Stories 


in favor of a plan which I thought might offer me some 
amusement. For the execution of this I depended upon 
Maignan, my equerry, who was a man of lively imagina- 
tion, being the same who had of his own motion arranged 
and carried out the triumphal procession, in which I was 
borne to Rosny after the battle of Ivry. Before I sat down 
to supper I gave him his directions; and as I had expected, 
news was brought to me while I was at table that the 
prisoners had arrived. 

Thereupon I informed the duchess and the company gen- 
erally, for, as was usual, a number of my country neigh- 
bors had come to compliment me on my return, that there 
was some sport of a rare kind on foot; and we adjourned, 
Maignan, followed by four pages bearing lights, leading 
the way to that end of the terrace which abuts on the 
linden avenue. Here, a score of grooms holding torches © 
aloft had been arranged in a circle so that the impromptu 
theater thus formed, which Maignan had ordered with much 
taste, was as light as in the day. Ona sloping bank at one 
end seats had been placed for those who had supped at 
my table, while the rest of the company found such places 
of vantage as they could; their number, indeed, amounting, 
with my household, to two hundred persons. In the center 
of the open space a small forge fire had been kindled, the 
red glow of which added much to the strangeness of the 
scene; and on the anvil beside it were ranged a number of 
horses’ and donkeys’ shoes, with a full complement of the 
tools used by smiths. All being ready I gave the word 
to bring in the prisoners, and escorted by La Trape and 
six of my guards, they were marched into the arena. In 
their pale and terrified faces, and the shaking limbs which 
could scarce support them to their appointed stations, I 
read both the consciousness of guilt and the apprehension 
of immediate death; it was plain that they expected noth- 
ing less. I was very willing to play with their fears, and 
for some time looked at them in silence, while all wondered 
with lively curiosity what would ensue. I then addressed 
them gravely, telling the innkeeper that I knew well he 


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Stanley J. Weyman 


had loosened each year a shoe of my horse, in order that 
his brother might profit by the job of replacing it; and 
went on to reprove the smith for the ingratitude which 
had led him to return my bounty by the conception of so 
knavish a trick. } 

Upon this they confessed their guilt, and flinging them- 
selves upon their knees with many tears and prayers 
begged for mercy. This, after a decent interval, I per- 
mitted myself to grant. “ Your lives, which are forfeited, 
shall be spared,’ I pronounced. “ But punished you must 
be. I therefore ordain that Simon, the smith, at once fit, 
nail, and properly secure a pair of iron shoes to Andrew’s 
heels, and that then Andrew, who by that time will have 
picked up something of the smith’s art, do the same to 
Simon. So will you both learn to avoid such shoeing tricks 
for the future.” 

It may well be imagined that a judgment so whimsical, 
and so justly adapted to the offense, charmed all save the 
culprits; and in a hundred ways the pleasure of those pres- 
ent was evinced, to such a degree, indeed, that Maignan 
had some difficulty in restoring silence and gravity to the 
assemblage. This done, however, Master Andrew was 
taken in hand and his wooden shoes removed. The tools 
of his trade were placed before the smith, who cast glances 
so piteous, first at his brother’s feet and then at the shoes 
on the anvil, as again gave rise to a prodigious amount of 
merriment, my pages in particular well-nigh forgetting my 
presence, and rolling about in a manner unpardonable at 
another time. However, I rebuked them sharply, and was 
about to order the sentence to be carried into effect, when 
the remembrance of the many pleasant simplicities which 
the smith had uttered to me, acting upon a natural dispo- 
sition to mercy, which the most calumnious of my enemies 
have never questioned, induced me to give the prisoners 
a chance of escape. “ Listen,” I said, “ Simon and Andrew. 
Your sentence has been pronounced, and will certainly be 
executed unless you can avail yourself of the condition I 
now Offer. You shall have three minutes; if in that time 


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either of you can make a good joke, he shall go free. If 
not, let a man attend to the bellows, La Trape!” 

This added a fresh satisfaction to my neighbors, who 
were well assured now that I had not promised them a 
novel entertainment without good grounds; for the gri- 
maces of the two knaves thus bidden to jest if they would 
save their skins, were so diverting they would have made 
a nun laugh. They looked at me with their eyes as wide 
as plates, and for the whole of the time of grace never a 
word could they utter save howls for mercy. “ Simon,” 
I said gravely, when the time was up, “have you a joke? 
No. Andrew, my friend, have you a joke? No. Then . 

I was going on to order the sentence to be carried out, 
when the innkeeper flung himself again upon his knees, 
and cried out loudly—as much to my astonishment as to 
the regret of the bystanders, who were bent on seeing so 
strange a shoeing feat—‘‘ One word, my lord; I can give 
you no joke, but I can do a service, an eminent service to 
the king. I can disclose a conspiracy!” 

I was somewhat taken aback by this sudden and public 
announcement. But I had been too long in the king’s 
employment not to have remarked how strangely things 
are brought to light. On hearing the man’s words there- 
fore—which were followed by a stricken silence—I looked 
sharply at the faces of such of those present as it was possi- 
ble to suspect, but failed to observe any sign of confusion 
or dismay, or anything more particular than so abrupt a 
statement was calculated to produce. Doubting much 
whether the man was not playing with me, I addressed 
him sternly, warning him to beware, lest in his anxiety 
to save his heels by falsely accusing others, he should lose 
his head. For that if his conspiracy should prove to be 
an invention of his own, I should certainly consider it my 
duty to hang him forthwith. 

He heard me out, but nevertheless persisted in his story, 
adding desperately, “It is a plot, my lord, to assassinate 
you and the king on the same day.” 

This statement struck me a blow; for I had good reason 


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Stanley J. Weyman 


to know that at that time the king had alienated many by 
his infatuation for Madame de Verneuil; while I had always 
to reckon firstly with all who hated him, and secondly with 
all whom my pursuit of his interests injured, either in 
reality or appearance. I therefore immediately directed 
that the prisoners should be led in close custody to the 
chamber adjoining my private closet, and taking the pre- 
caution to call my guards about me, since I knew not what 
attempt despair might not breed, I withdrew myself, mak- 
ing such apologies to the company as the nature of the case 
permitted. 

I ordered Simon the smith to be first brought to me, 
and in the presence of Maignan only, I severely examined 
him as to his knowledge of any conspiracy. He denied, 
however, that he had ever heard of the matters referred 
to by his brother, and persisted so firmly in the denial that 
I was inclined to believe him. In the end he was taken 
out and Andrew was brought in. The innkeeper’s de- 
meanor was such as I have often observed in intriguers 
brought suddenly to book. He averred the existence of 
the conspiracy, and that its objects were those which he 
had stated. He also offered to give up his associates, but 
conditioned that he should do this in his own way; un- 
dertaking to conduct me and one other person—but no 
more, lest the alarm should be given—to a place in Paris 
on the following night, where we could hear the plotters 
state their plans and designs. In this way only, he urged, 
could proof positive be obtained. 

I was much startled by this proposal, and inclined to 
think it a trap; but further consideration dispelled my fears. 
The innkeeper had held no parley with anyone save his 
guards and myself since his arrest, and could neither have 
warned his accomplices, nor acquainted them with any 
design the execution of which should depend on his con- 
fession to me. I therefore accepted his terms—with a 
private reservation that I should have help at hand—and 
before daybreak next morning left Rosny, which I had only 
seen by torchlight, with my prisoner and a select body 


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of Swiss. We entered Paris in the afternoon in three 
parties, with as little parade as possible, and went straight 
to the Arsenal, whence, as soon as evening fell, I hurried 
with only two armed attendants to the Louvre. 

A return so sudden and unexpected was as great a sur- 
prise to the court as to the king, and I was not slow to 
mark with an inward smile the discomposure which ap- 
peared very clearly on the faces of several, as the crowd 
in the chamber fell back for me to approach my master. 
I was careful, however, to remember that this might arise 
from other causes than guilt. The king received me with 
his wonted affection; and divining at once that I must have 
something important to communicate, withdrew with me 
to the farther end of the chamber, where we were out of 
earshot of the court. I there related the story to his 
majesty, keeping back nothing. | 

He shook his head, saying merely: “ The fish to escape 
the frying pan, grand master, will jump into the fire. And 
human nature, save in the case of you and me, who can 
trust one another, is very fishy.” 

I was touched by this gracious compliment, but not con- 
vinced. “ You have not seen the man, sire,” I said, ‘“ and 
I have had that advantage.” 

“And believe him?” 

“In part,’ I answered with caution. “So far at least 
as to be assured that he thinks to save his skin, which he 
will only do if he be telling the truth. May I beg you, sire,” 
I added hastily, seeing the direction of his glance, “ not to 
look so fixedly at the Duke of Epernon? He grows un- 
easy.” 

“Conscience makes—you know the rest.” 

“Nay, sire, with submission,” I replied, “I will answer 
for him; if he be not driven by fear to do something 
reckless.” 

“Good! I take your warranty, Duke of Sully,” the king 
said, with the easy grace which came so natural to him. 
“ But now in this matter what would you have me do?” 

“Double your guards, sire, for to-night—that is all. I 

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5. tanley J. Weyman 


will answer for the Bastile and the Arsenal ; and holding 
these we hold Paris.” 

But thereupon I found that the king had come to a de- 
cision, which I felt it to be my duty to combat with all 
my influence. He had conceived the idea of being the one 
to accompany me to the rendezvous. “I am tired of the 
dice,” he complained, ‘and sick of tennis, at which I know 
everybody’s strength. Madame de Verneuil is at Fontaine- 
bleau, the queen is unwell. Ah, Sully, I would the old 
days were back when we had Nerac for our Paris, and 
knew the saddle better than the armchair! ” 

“A king must think of his people,’ I reminded him. 

“The fowl in the pot? To be sure. So I will—to-mor- 
row,’ he replied. And in the end he would be obeyed. I 
took my leave of him as if for the night, and retired, leav- 
ing him at play with the Duke of Epernon. But an hour 
later, toward eight o’clock, his majesty, who had made an 
excuse to withdraw to his closet, met me outside the eastern 
gate of the Louvre. 

He was masked, and attended only by Coquet, his master 
of the household. I too wore a mask and was esquired by 
Maignan, under whose orders were four Swiss—whom I 
had chosen because they were unable to speak French— 
guarding the prisoner Andrew. I bade Maignan follow the 
innkeeper’s directions, and we proceeded in two parties 
through the streets on the left bank of the river, past the 
Chatelet and Bastile, until we reached an obscure street 
near the water, so narrow that the decrepit wooden houses 
shut out well-nigh all view of the sky. Here the prisoner 
halted and called upon me to fulfill the terms of my agree- 
ment. I bade Maignan therefore to keep with the Swiss 
at a distance of fifty paces, but to come up should I whistle 
or otherwise give the alarm; and myself with the king and 
Andrew proceeded onward in the deep shadow of the 
houses. I kept my hand on my pistol, which I had pre- 
viously shown to the prisoner, intimating that on the first 
sign of treachery I should blow out his brains. However, 
despite precaution, I felt uncomfortable to the last degree. 


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English Mystery Stories 


I blamed myself severely for allowing the king to expose 
himself and the country to this unnecessary danger; while 
the meanness of the locality, the fetid air, the darkness of 
the night, which was wet and tempestuous, and the uncer- 
tainty of the event lowered my spirits, and made every 
splash in the kennel and stumble on the reeking, slippery 
pavements—matters over which the king grew merry— 
seem no light troubles to me. 

Arriving at a house, which, if we might judge in the 
darkness, seemed to be of rather greater pretensions than 
its fellows, our guide stopped, and whispered to us to 
mount some steps to a raised wooden gallery, which inter- 
vened between the lane and the doorway. On this, besides 
the door, a couple of unglazed windows looked out. The 
shutter of one was ajar, and showed us a large, bare room, 
lighted by a couple of rushlights. Directing us to place | 
ourselves close to this shutter, the innkeeper knocked at the 
door in a peculiar fashion, and almost immediately entered, 
going at once into the lighted room. Peering cautiously 
through the window we were surprised to find that the 
only person within, save the newcomer, was a young woman, 
who, crouching over a smoldering fire, was crooning a 
lullaby while she attended to a large black pot. 

“Good evening, mistress!” said the innkeeper, advanc- 
ing to the fire with a fair show of nonchalance. 

“Good evening, Master Andrew,” the girl replied, look- 
ing up and nodding, but showing no sign of surprise at his 
appearance. “ Martin is away, but he may return at any 
moment.” 

“Ts he still of the same mind? ” 

fe Outte.: 

“And what of Sully? Is he to die then?” he asked. 

“They have decided he must,” the girl answered gloom- 
ily. It may be believed that I listened with all my ears, 
while the king by a nudge in my side seemed to rally me 
on the destiny so coolly arranged for me. “ Martin says 
it is no good killing the other unless he goes too—they have 
been so long together. But it vexes me sadly, Master An- 

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Stanley J. Weyman 


drew,” she added with a sudden break in her voice. “ Sadly 
it vexes me. I could not sleep last night for thinking of it, 
and the risk Martin runs. And I shall sleep less when it 
is done.” 

“Pooh-pooh!” said that rascally innkeeper. ‘“ Think 
less about it. Things will grow worse and worse if they 
are let live. The King has done harm enough already. 
And he grows old besides.” 

“ That is true!” said the girl. ‘“ And no doubt the sooner 
he is put out of the way the better. He is changed sadly. 
I do not say a word for him. Let him die. It is killing 
Sully that troubles me—that and the risk Martin runs.” 

At this I took the liberty of gently touching the king. 
He answered by an amused grimace; then by a motion of 
his hand he enjoined silence. We stooped still farther for- 
ward so as better to command the room. The girl was 
rocking herself to and fro in evident distress of mind. “If 
we killed the King,” she continued, “ Martin declares we 
should be no better off, as long as Sully lives. Both or 
neither, he says. But I donot know. I cannot bear to think 
of it. It was a sad day when we brought Epernon here, 
Master Andrew; and one I fear we shall rue as long as we 
live.” 

It was now the king’s turn to be moved. He grasped my 
wrist so forcibly that I restrained a cry with difficulty. 
“Epernon!” he whispered harshly in my ear. “ They are 
Epernon’s tools! Where is your guaranty now, Rosny?” 

I confess that I trembled. I knew well that the king, 
particular in small courtesies, never forgot to call his serv- 
ants by their correct titles, save in two cases; when he indi- 
cated by the seeming error, as once in Marshal Biron’s 
affair, his intention to promote or degrade them; or when 
he was moved to the depths of his nature and fell into an 
old habit. I did not dare to reply, but listened greedily for 
more information. 

“When is it to be done?” asked the innkeeper, sinking 
his voice and glancing round, as if he would call especial 
attention to this. 


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Enghsh Mystery Stortes 


“That depends upon Master la Riviére,” the girl an- 
swered. “To-morrow night, I understand, if Master la 
Riviére can have the stuff ready.” 

I met the king’s eyes. They shone fiercely in the faint 
light, which issuing from the window fell on him. Of all 
things he hated treachery most, and La Riviére was his 
first body physician, and at this very time, as I well knew, 
was treating him for a slight derangement which the king 
had brought upon himself by his imprudence. This doctor 
had formerly been in the employment of the Bouillon fam- 
ily, who had surrendered his services to the king. Neither 
I nor his majesty had trusted the Duke of Bouillon for the 
last year past, so that we were not surprised by this hint 
that he was privy to the design. 

Despite our anxiety not to miss a word, an approaching _ 
step warned us at this moment to draw back. More than 
once before we had done so to escape the notice of a way- 
farer passing up and down. But this time I had a dif- 
ficulty in inducing the king to adopt the precaution. Yet 
it was well that I succeeded, for the person who came 
stumbling along toward us did not pass, but, mounting the 
steps, walked by within touch of us and entered the house. 

“The plot thickens,” muttered the king. ‘ Who is this?” 

At the moment he asked I was racking my brain to re- 
member. I have a good eye and a fair recollection for 
faces, and this was one I had seen several times. The fea- 
tures were so familiar that I suspected the man of being a 
courtier in disguise, and I ran over the names of several per- 
sons whom I knew to be Bouillon’s secret agents. But he 
was none of these, and obeying the king’s gesture, I bent 
myself again to the task of listening. 

The girl looked up on the man’s entrance, but did not rise. 
“You are late, Martin,” she said. 

“A little,” the newcomer answered. “ How do you do, 
Master Andrew? What cheer? What, still vexing, mis- 
tress?’ he added contemptuously to the girl. “ You have 
too soft a heart for this business!” 

She sighed, but made no answer. 

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Stanley J. Weyman 


“You have made up your mind to it, I hear?” said the 
innkeeper. 

“ That is it. Needs must when the devil drives!” replied 
the man jauntily. He had a downcast, reckless, luckless air, 
yet in his face I thought I still saw traces of a better spirit. 

“The devil in this case was Epernon,” quoth Andrew. 

“ Aye, curse him! I would I had cut his dainty throat 
before he crossed my threshold,” cried the desperado. 
“ But there, it is too late to say that now. What has to be 
done, has to be done.” 

“How are you going about it? Poison, the mistress 
says.” 

“Yes; but if I had my way,” the man growled fiercely, 
“T would out one of these nights and cut the dogs’ throats 
in the kennel! ” 

“You could never escape, Martin!” the girl cried, rising 
in excitement. “It would be hopeless. It would merely be 
throwing away your own life.” 

“Well, it is not to be done that way, so there is an end 
of it,” quoth the man wearily. “Give me my supper. The 
devil take the king and Sully too! He will soon have 
them.” 

On this Master Andrew rose, and I took his movement 
toward the door for a signal for us to retire. He came out 
at once, shutting the door behind him as he bade the pair 
within a loud good night. He found us standing in the 
street waiting for him and forthwith fell on his knees in the 
mud and looked up at me, the perspiration standing thick 
on his white face. ‘ My lord,” he cried hoarsely, “I have 
earned my pardon!” 

“Tf you go on,” I said encouragingly, “as you have be- 
gun, have no fear.” Without more ado I whistled up the 
Swiss and bade Maignan go with them and arrest the man 
and woman with as little disturbance as possible. While 
‘this was being done we waited without, keeping a sharp 
eye upon the informer, whose terror, I noted with suspicion, 
seemed to be in no degree diminished. He did not, how- 
ever, try to escape. and Maignan presently came to tell us 

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English Mystery Stories 


that he had executed the arrest without difficulty or re- 
sistance. 

The importance of arriving at the truth before Epernon 
and the greater conspirators should take the alarm was so 
vividly present to the minds of the king and myself, that 
we did not hesitate to examine the prisoners in their house, 
rather than hazard the delay and observation which their 
removal to a more fit place must occasion. Accordingly, 
taking the precaution to post Coquet in the street outside, 
and to plant a burly Swiss in the doorway, the king and I 
entered. I removed my mask as I did so, being aware of 
the necessity of gaining the prisoners’ confidence, but I 
begged the king to retain his. As I had expected, the man 
immediately recognized me and fell on his knees, a nearer 
view confirming the notion I had previously entertained that 
his features were familiar to me, though I could not re-— 
member his name. I thought this a good starting-point for 
my examination, and bidding Maignan withdraw, I as- 
sumed an air of mildness and asked the fellow his name. 

“Martin, only, please your lordship,” he answered; add- 
ing, ‘once I sold you two dogs, sir, for the chase, and to 
your lady a lapdog called Ninette no larger than her hand.” 

I remembered the knave, then, as a fashionable dog 
dealer, who had been much about the court in the reign of 
Henry the Third and later; and I saw at once how con- 
venient a tool he might be made, since he could be seen in 
converse with people of all ranks without arousing sus- 
picion. The man’s face as he spoke expressed so much 
fear and surprise that I determined to try what I had often 
found successful in the case of greater criminals, to squeeze 
him for a confession while still excited by his arrest, and 
before he should have had time to consider what his chances 
of support at the hands of his confederates might be. I 
charged him therefore solemnly to tell the whole truth as 
he hoped for the king’s mercy. He heard me, gazing at me 
piteously ; but his only answer, to my surprise, was that he 
had nothing to confess. 

“Come, come,” I replied sternly, “this will avail you 

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Stanley J. Weyman 


nothing; if you do not speak quickly, rogue, and to the 
point, we shall find means to compel you. Who counseled 
you to attempt his majesty’s life?” 

On this he stared so stupidly at me, and exclaimed with 
so real an appearance of horror: “How? I attempt the 
king’s life? God forbid!” that I doubted that we had be- 
fore us a more dangerous rascal than I had thought, and I 
hastened to bring him to the point. 

“ What, then,” I cried, frowning, “of the stuff Master 
la Riviére is to give you to take the king’s life to-morrow 
night? Oh, we know something, I assure you; bethink you 
quickly, and find your tongue if you would have an easy 
death.” 

I expected to see his self-control break down at this 
proof of our knowledge of his design, but he only stared 
at me with the same look of bewilderment. I was about 
to bid them bring in the informer that I might see the 
two front to front, when the female prisoner, who had 
hitherto stood beside her companion in such distress and 
terror as might be expected in a woman of that class, sud- 
denly stopped her tears and lamentations. It occurred to 
me that she might make a better witness. I turned to her, 
but when I would have questioned her she broke into a wild 
scream of hysterical laughter. 

From that I remember that I learned nothing, though it 
greatly annoyed me. But there was one present who did— 
the king. He laid his hand on my shoulder, gripping it 
with a force that I read as a command to be silent. 

“Where,” he said to the man, “do you keep the King 
and Sully and Epernon, my friend?” 

“The King and Sully—with the lordship’s leave,” said 
the man quickly, with a frightened glance at me—“ are in 
the kennels at the back of the house, but it is not safe to 
go near them. The King is raving mad, and—and the other 
dog is sickening. Epernon we had to kill a month back. 
He brought the disease here, and I have had such losses 
through him as have nearly ruined me, please vour lord- 
ship.” 

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“Get up—get up, man!” cried the king, and tearing off 
his mask he stamped up and down the room, so torn by 
paroxysms of laughter that he choked himself when again 
and again he attempted to speak. 

I too now saw the mistake, but I could not at first see 
it in the same light. Commanding myself as well as I 
could, I ordered one of the Swiss to fetch in the innkeeper, 
but to admit no one else. 

The knave fell on his knees as soon as he saw me, his 
cheeks shaking like a jelly. 

“Mercy, mercy!” was all he could say. 

“You have dared to play with me?” I whispered. 

“You bade me joke,” he sobbed, “ you bade me.” 

I was about to say that it would be his last joke in this 
world—for my anger was fully aroused—when the king 
intervened. 

“Nay,” he said, laying his hand softly on my shoulder. 
“It has been the most glorious jest. I would not have missed 
it for a kingdom. I command you, Sully, to forgive him.” 

Thereupon his majesty strictly charged the three that 
they should not on peril of their lives mention the circum- 
stances to anyone. Nor to the best of my belief did they 
do so, being so shrewdly scared when they recognized the 
king that I verily think they never afterwards so much as 
spoke of the affair to one another. My master further 
gave me on his own part his most gracious promise that 
he would not disclose the matter even to Madame de Ver- 
neuil or the queen, and upon these representations he in- 
duced me freely to forgive the innkeeper. So ended this 
conspiracy, on the diverting details of which I may seem 
to have dwelt longer than I should; but alas! in twenty-one 
years of power I investigated many, and this one only can 
I regard with satisfaction. The rest were so many warn- 
ings and predictions of the fate which, despite all my care 
and fidelity, was in store for the great and good master I 
served. 


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Robert Louis Stevenson 
The Pavilion on the Links 
I 


I WAS a great solitary when I was young. I made it my 

pride to keep aloof and suffice for my own entertain-- 
ment; and I may say that I had neither friends nor ac- 
quaintances until I met that friend who became my wife 
and the mother of my children. With one man only was I 
on private terms; this was R. Northmour, Esquire, of 
Graden Easter, in Scotland. We had met at college; and 
though there was not much liking between us, nor even 
much intimacy, we were so nearly of a humor that we could 
associate with ease to both. Misanthropes, we believed our- 
selves to be; but I have thought since that we were only 
sulky fellows. It was scarcely a companionship, but a co- 
existence in unsociability. Northmour’s exceptional violence 
of temper made it no easy affair for him to keep the peace 
with anyone but me; and as he respected my silent ways, 
and let me come and go as I pleased, I could tolerate his 
presence without concern. I think we called each other 
friends. 

When Northmour took his degree and I decided to leave 
the university without one, he invited me on a long visit to 
Graden Easter; and it was thus that I first became ac- 
quainted with the scene of my adventures. The mansion 
house of Graden stood in a bleak stretch of country some 
three miles from the shore of the German Ocean. It was 
as large as a barrack; and as it had been built of a soft 
stone, liable to consume in the eager air of the seaside, it 
was damp and draughty within and half ruinous without. 
It was impossible for two young men to lodge with comfort 


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Scotch Mystery Stories 


in such a dwelling. But there stood in the northern part of 
the estate, in a wilderness of links and blowing sand hills, 
and between a plantation and the sea, a small pavilion or 
belvedere, of modern design, which was exactly suited to 
our wants; and in this hermitage, speaking little, reading 
much, and rarely associating except at meals, Northmour and 
I spent four tempestuous winter months. I might have stayed 
longer; but one March night there sprung up between us a 
dispute, which rendered my departure necessary. North- 
mour spoke hotly, I remember, and I suppose I must have 
made some tart rejoinder. He leaped from his chair and 
grappled me; I had to fight, without exaggeration, for my 
life; and it was only with a great effort that I mastered him, 
for he was near as strong in body as myself, and seemed 
filled with the devil. The next morning, we met on our — 
usual terms; but I judged it more delicate to withdraw; nor 
did he attempt to dissuade me. 

It was nine years before I revisited the neighborhood. I 
traveled at that time with a tilt-cart, a tent, and a cooking 
stove, tramping all day beside the wagon, and at night, when- 
ever it was possible, gypsying in a cove of the hills, or by the 
side of a wood. I believe I visited in this manner most of 
the wild and desolate regions both in England and Scot- 
land; and, as I had neither friends nor relations, I was 
troubled with no correspondence, and had nothing in the 
nature of headquarters, unless it was the office of my so- 
licitors, from whom I drew my income twice a year. It 
was a life in which I delighted ; and I fully thought to have 
grown old upon the march, and at last died in a ditch. 

It was my whole business to find desolate corners, where 
I could camp without the fear of interruption; and hence, 
being in another part of the same shire, I bethought me 
suddenly of the Pavilion on the Links. No thoroughfare 
passed within three miles of it. The nearest town, and that 
was but a fisher village, was at a distance of six or seven. 
For ten miles of length, and from a depth varying from 
three miles to half a mile, this belt of barren country lay 
along the sea. The beach, which was the natural approach, 

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Robert Louis Stevenson 


was full of quicksands. Indeed I may say there is hardly a 
better place of concealment in the United Kingdom. I de- 
termined to pass a week in the Sea-Wood of Graden Easter, 
and making a long stage, reached it about sundown on a 
wild September day. 

The country, I have said, was mixed sand hill and links ; 
links being a Scottish name for sand which has ceased drift- 
ing and become more or less solidly covered with turf. The 
pavilion stood on an even space: a little behind it, the wood 
began in a hedge of elders huddled together by the wind; 
in front, a few tumbled sand hills stood between it and the 
sea. An outcropping of rock had formed a bastion for the 
sand, so that there was here a promontory in the coast line 
between two shallow bays; and just beyond the tides, the 
rock again cropped out and formed an islet of small dimen- 
sions but strikingly designed. The quicksands were of great 
extent at low water, and had an infamous reputation in the 
country. Close in shore, between the islet and the promon- 
tory, it was said they would swallow a man in four minutes 
and a half; but there may have been little ground for. this 
precision. The district was alive with rabbits, and haunted 
by gulls which made a continual piping about the pavilion. 
On summer days the outlook was bright and even gladsome ; 
but at sundown in September, with a high wind, and a 
heavy surf rolling in close along the links, the place told of 
nothing but dead mariners and sea disaster. A ship beating 
to windward on the horizon, and a huge truncheon of wreck 
half buried in the sands at my feet, completed the innuendo 
of the scene. 

The pavilion—it had been built by the last proprietor, 
Northmour’s uncle, a silly and prodigal virtuoso—presented 
little signs of age. It was two stories in height, Italian in 
design, surrounded by a patch of garden in which nothing 
had prospered but a few coarse flowers; and looked, with 
its shuttered windows, not like a house that had been de- 
serted, but like one that had never been tenanted by man. 
Northmour was plainly from home; whether, as usual, sulk- 
ing in the cabin of his yacht, or in one of his fitful and ex- 


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travagant appearances in the world of society, I had, of 
course, no means of guessing. The place had an air of 
solitude that daunted even a solitary like myself; the wind 
cried in the chimneys with a strange and wailing note; and 
it was with a sense of escape, as if I were going indoors, 
that I turned away and, driving my cart before me, entered 
the skirts of the wood. 

The Sea-Wood of Graden had been planted to shelter the 
cultivated fields behind, and check the encroachments of the 
blowing sand. As you advanced into it from coastward, 
elders were succeeded by other hardy shrubs; but the timber 
was all stunted and bushy; it led a life of conflict; the trees 
were accustomed to swing there all night long in fierce win- 
ter tempests; and even in early spring, the leaves were al- 
ready flying, and autumn was beginning, in this exposed 
plantation. Inland the ground rose into a little hill, which, 
along with the islet, served as a sailing mark for seamen. 
When the hill was open of the islet to the north, vessels 
must bear well to the eastward to clear Graden Ness and 
the Graden Bullers. In the lower ground, a streamlet ran 
among the trees, and, being dammed with dead leaves and 
clay of its own carrying, spread out every here and there, 
and lay in stagnant pools. One or two ruined cottages were 
dotted about the wood; and, according to Northmour, these 
were ecclesiastical foundations, and in their time had shel- 
tered pious hermits. 

I found a den, or small hollow, where there was a spring 
of pure water; and there, clearing away the brambles, I 
pitched the tent, and made a fire to cook my supper. My 
horse I picketed farther in the wood where there was a 
patch of sward. The banks of the den not only concealed 
the light of my fire, but sheltered me from the wind, which 
was cold as well as high. 

The life I was leading made me both hardy and frugal. 
I never drank but water, and rarely eat anything more costly 
than oatmeal; and I required so little sleep, that, although I 
rose with the peep of day, I would often lie long awake in 
the dark or starry watches of the night. Thus in Graden 

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Robert Louis Stevenson 


Sea-Wood, although I fell thankfully asleep by eight in the 
evening I was awake again before eleven with a full pos- 
session of my faculties, and no sense of drowsiness or 
fatigue. I rose and sat by the fire, watching the trees and 
clouds tumultuously tossing and fleeing overhead, and heark- 
ening to the wind and the rollers along the shore; till at 
length, growing weary of inaction, I quitted the den, and 
strolled toward the borders of the wood. A young moon, 
buried in mist, gave a faint illumination to my steps; and 
the light grew brighter as I walked forth into the links. At 
the same moment, the wind, smelling salt of the open ocean 
and carrying particles of sand, struck me with its full force, 
so that I had to bow my head. 

When I raised it again to look about me, I was aware of 
a light in the pavilion. It was not stationary; but passed 
from one window to another, as though some one were re- 
viewing the different apartments with a lamp or candle. I 
watched it for some seconds in great surprise. When I had 
arrived in the afternoon the house had been plainly de- 
serted ; now it was as plainly occupied. It was my first idea 
that a gang of thieves might have broken in and be now 
ransacking Northmour’s cupboards, which were many and 
not ill supplied. But what should bring thieves at Graden 
Faster? And, again, all the shutters had been thrown open, 
and it would have been more in the character of such gentry 
to close them. I dismissed the notion, and fell back upon 
another. Northmour himself must have arrived, and was 
now airing and inspecting the pavilion. 

I have said that there was no real affection between this 
man and me; but, had I loved him like a brother, I was 
then so much more in love with solitude that I should none 
the less have shunned his company. As it was, I turned 
and ran for it; and it was with genuine satisfaction that I 
found myself safely back beside the fire. I had escaped an 
acquaintance ; I should have one more night in comfort. In 
the morning, I might either slip away before Northmour 
was abroad, or pay him as short a visit as I chose. 

But when morning came, I thought the situation so di- 


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Scotch Mystery Stories 


verting that I forgot my shyness. Northmour was at my 
mercy ; I arranged a good practical jest, though I knew well 
that my neighbor was not the man to jest with in security ; 
and, chuckling beforehand over its success, took my place 
among the elders at the edge of the wood, whence I could 
command the door of the pavilion. The shutters were all 
once more closed, which I remember thinking odd; and the 
house, with its white walls and green venetians, looked 
spruce and habitable in the morning light. Hour after hour 
passed, and still no sign of Northmour. I knew him for a 
sluggard in the morning; but, as it drew on toward noon, 
I lost my patience. To say the truth, I had promised myself 
to break my fast in the pavilion, and hunger began to prick 
me sharply. It was a pity to let the opportunity go by with- 
out some cause for mirth; but the grosser appetite prevailed, — 
and I relinquished my jest with regret, and sallied from the 
wood. 

The appearance of the house affected me, as I drew near, 
with disquietude. It seemed unchanged since last evening ; 
and I had expected it, I scarce knew why, to wear some ex- 
ternal signs of habitation. But no: the windows were all 
closely shuttered, the chimneys breathed no smoke, and the 
front door itself was closely padlocked. Northmour, there- 
fore, had entered by the back; this was the natural, and in- 
deed, the necessary conclusion; and you may judge of my 
surprise when, on turning the house, I found the back door 
similarly secured. 

My mind at once reverted to the original theory of 
thieves; and I blamed myself sharply for my last night’s 
inaction. I examined ail the windows on the lower story, 
but none of them had been tampered with; I tried the pad- 
locks, but they were both secure. It thus became a problem 
how the thieves, if thieves they were, had managed to enter 
the house. They must have got, I reasoned, upon the roof 
of the outhouse where Northmour used to keep his photo- 
graphic battery; and from thence, either by the window of 
the study or that of my old bedroom, completed their bur- 
glarious entry. 


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Robert Louis Stevenson 


I followed what I supposed was their example; and, get- 
ting on the roof, tried the shutters of each room. Both 
were secure; but I was not to be beaten; and, with a little 
force, one of them flew open, grazing, as it did so, the back 
of my hand. I remember, I put the wound to my mouth, 
and stood for perhaps half a minute licking it like a dog, 
and mechanically gazing behind me over the waste links 
and the sea; and, in that space of time, my eye made note 
of a large schooner yacht some miles to the northeast. Then 
I threw up the window and climbed in. 

I went over the house, and nothing can express my mys- 
tification. There was no sign of disorder, but, on the con- 
trary, the rooms were unusually clean and pleasant. I found 
fires laid, ready for lighting; three bedrooms prepared with 
a luxury quite foreign to Northmour’s habits, and with 
water in the ewers and the beds turned down; a table set 
for three in the dining-room; and an ample supply of cold 
meats, game, and vegetables on the pantry shelves. There 
were guests expected, that was plain; but why guests, when 
Northmour hated society? And, above all, why was the 
house thus stealthily prepared at dead of night? and why 
were the shutters closed and the doors padlocked? 

I effaced all traces of my visit, and came forth from the 
window feeling sobered and concerned. 

The schooner yacht was still in the same place; and it 
flashed for a moment through my mind that this might be 
the “ Red Earl” bringing the owner of the pavilion and his 
guests. But the vessel’s head was set the other way. 


II 


I RETURNED to the den to cook myself a meal, of which 

I stood in great need, as well as to care for my horse, whom 

I had somewhat neglected in the morning. From time to 

time I went down to the edge of the wood; but there was 

no change in the pavilion, and not a human creature was 

seen all day upon the links. The schooner in the offing was 
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Scotch Mystery Stories 


the one touch of life within my range of vision. She, ap- 
parently with no set object, stood off and on or lay to, hour 
after hour; but as the evening deepened, she drew steadily 
nearer. I became more convinced that she carried North- 
mour and his friends, and that they would probably come 
ashore after dark; not only because that was of a piece with 
the secrecy of the preparations, but because the tide would 
not have flowed sufficiently before eleven to cover Graden 
Floe and the other sea quags that fortified the shore against 
invaders. 

All day the wind had been going down, and the sea along 
with it; but there was a return toward sunset of the heavy 
weather of the day before. The night set in pitch dark. 
The wind came off the sea in squalls, like the firing of a 
battery of cannon; now and then there was a flaw of rain, 
and the surf rolled heavier with the rising tide. I was down 
at my observatory among the elders, when a light was run 
up to the masthead of the schooner, and showed she was 
closer in than when I had last seen her by the dying day- 
light. I concluded that this must be a signal to North- 
mour’s associates on shore; and, stepping forth into the 
links, looked around me for something in response. 

A small footpath ran along the margin of the wood, and 
formed the most direct communication between the pavilion 
and the mansion house; and, as I cast my eyes to that side, 
I saw a spark of light, not a quarter of a mile away, and 
rapidly approaching. From its uneven course it appeared 
to be the light of a lantern carried by a person who followed 
the windings of the path, and was often staggered, and taken 
aback by the more violent squalls. I concealed myself once 
more among the elders, and waited eagerly for the new- 
comer’s advance. It proved to be a woman; and, as she 
passed within half a rod of my ambush, I was able to recog- 
nize the features. The deaf and silent old dame, who had 
nursed Northmour in his childhood, was his associate in this 
underhand affair. 

I followed her at a little distance, taking advantage of the 
innumerable heights and hollows, concealed by the darkness, 

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Robert Louis Stevenson 


and favored not only by the nurse’s deafness, but by the 
uproar of the wind and surf. She entered the pavilion, and, 
going at once to the upper story, opened and set a light in 
one of the windows that looked toward the sea. Immedi- 
ately afterwards the light at the schooner’s masthead was 
run down and extinguished. Its purpose had been attained, 
and those on board were sure that they were expected. The 
old woman resumed her preparations; although the other 
shutters remained closed, I could see a glimmer going to 
and fro about the house; and a gush of sparks from one 
chimney after another soon told me that the fires were be- 
ing kindled. 

Northmour and his guests, I was now persuaded, would 
come ashore as soon as there was water on the floe. It was 
a wild night for boat service; and I felt some alarm mingle 
with my curiosity as I reflected on the danger of the landing. 
My old acquaintance, it was true, was the most eccentric 
of men; but the present eccentricity was both disquieting and 
lugubrious to consider. A variety of feelings thus led me 
toward the beach, where I lay flat on my face in a hollow 
within six feet of the track that led to the pavilion. Thence, 
I should have the satisfaction of recognizing the arrivals, 
and, if they should prove to be acquaintances, greeting them 
as soon as they landed. 

Some time before eleven, while the tide was still danger- 
ously low, a boat’s lantern appeared close in shore; and, my 
attention being thus awakened, I could perceive another still 
far to seaward, violently tossed, and sometimes hidden by 
the billows. The weather, which was getting dirtier as the 
night went on, and the perilous situation of the yacht upon a 
lee shore, had probably driven them to attempt a landing at 
the earliest possible moment. 

A little afterwards, four yachtsmen carrying a very heavy 
chest, and guided by a fifth with a lantern, passed close in 
front of me as I lay, and were admitted to the pavilion by 
the nurse. They returned to the beach, and passed me a 
third time with another chest, larger but apparently not so 
heavy as the first. A third time they made the transit; and 

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Scotch Mystery Stories 


on this occasion one of the yachtsmen carried a leather port- 
manteau, and the others a lady’s trunk and carriage bag. 
My curiosity was sharply excited. If a woman were among 
the guests of Northmour, it would show a change in his 
habits, and an apostasy from his pet theories of life, well 
calculated to fill me with surprise. When he and I dwelt 
there together, the pavilion had been a temple of misogyny. 
And now, one of the detested sex was to be installed under 
its roof. I remembered one or two particulars, a few notes 
of daintiness and almost of coquetry which had struck me 
the day before as I surveyed the preparations in the house; 
their purpose was now clear, and I thought myself dull not 
to have perceived it from the first. 

While I was thus reflecting, a second lantern drew near 
me from the beach. It was carried by a yachtsman whom 
I had not yet seen, and who was conducting two other per- 
sons to the pavilion. These two persons were unquestion- 
ably the guests for whom the house was made ready; and, 
straining eye and ear, I set myself to watch them as they 
passed. One was an unusually tall man, in a traveling hat 
slouched over his eyes, and a highland cape closely buttoned 
and turned up so as to conceal his face. You could make 
out no more of him than that he was, as I have said, unusu- 
ally tall, and walked feebly with a heavy stoop. By his side, 
and either clinging to him or giving him support—I could 
not make out which—was a young, tall, and slender figure 
of a woman. She was extremely pale; but in the light of 
the lantern her face was so marred by strong and changing 
shadows, that she might equally well have been as ugly as 
sin or as beautiful as I afterwards found her to be. 

When they were just abreast of me, the girl made some 
remark which was drowned by the noise of the wind. 

“Hush!” said her companion; and there was something 
in the tone with which the word was uttered that thrilled and 
rather shook my spirits. It seemed to breathe from a bosom 
laboring under the deadliest terror; I have never heard an- 
other syllable so expressive; and I still hear it again when 
I am feverish at night, and my mind runs upon old times. 

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Robert Louis Stevenson 


The man turned toward the girl as he spoke; I had a glimpse 
of much red beard and a nose which seemed to have been 
broken in youth; and his light eyes seemed shining in his 
face with some strong and unpleasant emotion. 

But these two passed on and were admitted in their turn 
to the pavilion. 

One by one, or in groups, the seamen returned to the 
beach. The wind brought me the sound of a rough voice 
crying, “ Shove off!” Then, after a pause, another lantern 
drew near. It was Northmour alone. 

My wife and I, a man and a woman, have often agreed to 
wonder how a person could be, at the same time, so hand- 
some and so repulsive as Northmour. He had the appear- 
ance of a finished gentleman; his face bore every mark of 
intelligence and courage; but you had only to look at him, 
even in his most amiable moment, to see that he had the 
temper of a slaver captain. I never knew a character that 
was both explosive and revengeful to the same degree; he 
combined the vivacity of the south with the sustained and 
deadly hatreds of the north; and both traits were plainly 
written on his face, which was a sort of danger signal. In 
person, he was tall, strong, and active; his hair and com- 
plexion very dark; his features handsomely designed, but 
spoiled by a menacing expression. 

At that moment he was somewhat paler than by nature; 
he wore a heavy frown; and his lips worked, and he looked 
sharply round him as he walked, like a man besieged with 
apprehensions. And yet I thought he had a look of triumph 
underlying all, as though he had already done much, and 
was near the end of an achievement. 

Partly from a scruple of delicacy—which I dare say came 
too late—partly from the pleasure of startling an acquaint- 
ance, I desired to make my presence known to him without 
delay. 

I got suddenly to my feet, and stepped forward. 

“ Northmour!”’ said I. 

I have never had so shocking a surprise in all my days. 
He leaped on me without a word; something shone in his 


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Scotch Mystery Stories 


hand; and he struck for my heart with a dagger. At the 
same moment I knocked him head over heels. Whether it 
was my quickness, or his own uncertainty, I know not; but 
the blade only grazed my shoulder, while the hilt and his 
fist struck me violently on the mouth. 

I fled, but not far. I had often and often observed the ca- 
pabilities of the sand hills for protracted ambush or stealthy 
advances and retreats; and, not ten yards from the scene of 
the scuffle, plumped down again upon the grass. The lantern 
had fallen and gone out. But what was my astonishment to 
see Northmour slip at a bound into the pavilion, and hear 
him bar the door behind him with a clang of iron! 

He had not pursued me. He had run away. Northmour, 
whom I knew for the most implacable and daring of men, 
had run away! I could scarce believe my reason; and yet 
in this strange business, where all was incredible, there 
was nothing to make a work about in an incredibility more 
or less. For why was the pavilion secretly prepared? Why 
had Northmour landed with his guests at dead of night, in 
half a gale of wind, and with the floe scarce covered? Why 
had he sought to kill me? Had he not recognized my 
voice? JI wondered. And, above all, how had he come to 
have a dagger ready in his hand? A dagger, or even a 
sharp knife, seemed out of keeping with the age in which 
we lived; and a gentleman landing from his yacht on the 
shore of his own estate, even although it was at night and 
with some mysterious circumstances, does not usually, as a 
matter of fact, walk thus prepared for deadly onslaught. 
The more [ reflected, the further I felt at sea. I recapitu- 
lated the elements of mystery, counting them on my fin- 
gers: the pavilion secretly prepared for guests; the guests 
landed at the risk of their lives and to the imminent peril 
of the yacht; the guests, or at least one of them, in undis- 
guised and seemingly causeless terror; Northmour with a 
naked weapon; Northmour stabbing his most intimate ac- 
quaintance at a word; last, and not least strange, North- 
mour fleeing from the man whom he had sought to murder, 
and barricading himself, like a hunted creature, behind the 

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Robert Louis Stevenson 


door of the pavilion. Here were at least six separate causes 
for extreme surprise; each part and parcel with the others, 
and forming all together one consistent story. I felt almost 
ashamed to believe my own senses. 

As I thus stood, transfixed with wonder, I began to grow 
painfully conscious of the injuries I had received in the 
scuffle; skulked round among the sand hills; and, by a 
devious path, regained the shelter of the wood. On the 
way, the old nurse passed again within several yards of me, 
still carrying her lantern, on the return journey to the 
mansion house of Graden. This made a seventh suspicious 
feature in the case. Northmour and his guests, it appeared, 
were to cook and do the cleaning for themselves, while the 
old woman continued to inhabit the big empty barrack 
among the policies. There must surely be great cause 
for secrecy, when so many inconveniences were confronted 
to preserve it. 

So thinking, I made my way to the den. For greater 
security, I trod out the embers of the fire, and lighted my 
lantern to examine the wound upon my shoulder. It was 
a trifling hurt, although it bled somewhat freely, and I 
dressed it as well as I could (for its position made it diffi- 
cult to reach) with some rag and cold water from the 
spring. While I was thus busied, I mentally declared war 
against Northmour and his mystery. I am not an angry 
man by nature, and I believe there was more curiosity 
than resentment in my heart. But war I certainly de- 
clared; and, by way of preparation, I got out my revolver, 
and, having drawn the charges, cleaned and reloaded it 
with scrupulous care. Next I became preoccupied about 
my horse. It might break loose, or fall to neighing, and 
so betray my camp in the Sea-Wood. I determined to rid 
myself of its neighborhood; and long before dawn I was 
leading it over the links in the direction of the fisher village. 


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Iil 


For two days I skulked round the pavilion, profiting by 
the uneven surface of the links. I became an adept in the 
necessary tactics. These low hillocks and shallow dells, 
running one into another, became a kind of cloak of dark- 
ness for my inthralling, but perhaps dishonorable, pursuit. 

Yet, in spite of this advantage, I could learn but little of 
Northmour or his guests. 

Fresh provisions were brought under cover of darkness 
by the old woman from the mansion house. Northmour, 
and the young lady, sometimes together, but more often 
singly, would walk for an hour or two at a time on the 
beach beside the quicksand. I could not but conclude. 
that this promenade was chosen with an eye to secrecy; for 
the spot was open only to seaward. But it suited me not 
less excellently; the highest and most accidented of the 
sand hills immediately adjoined; and from these, lying flat 
in a hollow, I could overlook Northmour or the young lady 
as they walked. 

The tall man seemed to have disappeared. Not only did 
he never cross the threshold, but he never so much as 
showed face at a window; or, at least, not so far as I could 
see; for I dared not creep forward beyond a certain distance 
in the day, since the upper floors commanded the bottoms 
of the links; and at night, when I could venture further, 
the lower windows were barricaded as if to stand a siege. 
Sometimes I thought the tall man must be confined to bed, 
for | remembered the feebleness of his gait; and sometimes 
I thought he must have gone clear away, and that North- 
mour and the young lady remained alone together in the 
pavilion. The idea, even then, displeased me. 

Whether or not this pair were man and wife, I had seen 
abundant reason to doubt the friendliness of their relation. 
Although I could hear nothing of what they said, and rare- 
ly so much as glean a decided expression on the face of 
either, there was a distance, almost a stiffness, in their bear- 

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Robert Louis Stevenson 


ing which showed them to be either unfamiliar or at en- 
mity. The girl walked faster when she was with North- 
mour than when she was alone; and I conceived that any 
inclination between a man and a woman would rather delay 
than accelerate the step. Moreover, she kept a good yard 
free of him, and trailed her umbrella, as if it were a bar- 
rier, on the side between them. Northmour kept sidling 
closer; and, as the girl retired from his advance, their course 
lay at a sort of diagonal across the beach, and wouid have 
landed them in the surf had it been long enough continued. 
But, when this was imminent, the girl would unostenta- 
tiously change sides and put Northmour between her and 
the sea. I watched these maneuvers, for my part, with 
high enjoyment and approval, and chuckled to myself at 
every move. 

On the morning of the third day, she walked alone for 
some time, and I perceived, to my great concern, that she 
was more than once in tears. You will see that my heart 
was already interested more than I supposed. She had a 
firm yet airy motion of the body, and carried her head with 
unimaginable grace; every step was a thing to look at, 
and she seemed in my eyes to breathe sweetness and dis- 
tinction. 

The day was so agreeable, being calm and sunshiny, with 
a tranquil sea, and yet with a healthful piquancy and vigor 
in the air, that, contrary to custom, she was tempted forth 
a second time to walk. On this occasion she was accom- 
panied by Northmour, and they had been but a short while 
on the beach, when I saw him take forcible possession of 
her hand. She struggled, and uttered a cry that was 
almost a scream. I sprung to my feet, unmindful of my 
strange position; but, ere I had taken a step, I saw North- 
mour bareheaded and bowing very low, as if to apologize; 
and dropped again at once into my ambush. A few words 
were interchanged ; and then, with another bow, he left the 
beach to return to the pavilion. He passed not far from 
me, and I could see him, flushed and lowering, and cutting 
savagely with his cane among the grass. It was not with- 


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out satisfaction that I recognized my own handiwork in a 
great cut under his right eye, and a considerable discolora- 
tion round the socket. 

For some time the girl remained where he had left her, 
looking out past the islet and over the bright sea. Then 
with a start, as one who throws off preoccupation and puts 
energy again upon its mettle, she broke into a rapid and 
decisive walk. She also was much incensed by what had 
passed. She had forgotten where she was. And I beheld 
her walk straight into the borders of the quicksand where 
it is most abrupt and dangerous. Two or three steps far- 
ther and her life would have been in serious jeopardy, when 
I slid down the face of the sand hill, which is there pre- 
cipitous, and, running halfway forward, called to her to 
stop. 

She did so, and turned round. There was not a tremor 
of fear in her behavior, and she marched directly up to me 
like a queen. I was barefoot, and clad like a common sailor, 
save for an Egyptian scarf round my waist; and she prob- 
ably took me at first for some one from the fisher village, 
straying after bait. As for her, when I thus saw her face 
to face, her eyes set steadily and imperiously upon mine, 
I was filled with admiration and astonishment, and thought 
her even more beautiful than I had looked to find her. 
Nor could I think enough of one who, acting with so much 
boldness, yet preserved a maidenly air that was both quaint 
and engaging; for my wife kept an old-fashioned precision 
of manner through all her admirable life—an excellent thing 
in woman, since it sets another value on her sweet famil- 
iarities. 

“What does this mean?” she asked. | 

“You were walking,” I told her, “ directly into Graden 
Floe.” 

“You do not belong to these parts,” she said again. 
“You speak like an educated man.” 

“T believe I have a right to that name,” said I, “ although 
in this disguise.” 

But her woman’s eye had already detected the sash. 

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Robert Louis Stevenson 


“Oh!” she said; “ your sash betrays-you.” 

“You have said the word betray,’ I resumed. “ May 
I ask you not to betray me? I was obliged to disclose my- 
self in your interest; but if Northmour learned my presence 
it might be worse than disagreeable for me.” 

“Do you know,” she asked, “to whom you are speak~ 
Inge 

“Not to Mr. Northmour’s wife?” I asked, by way of 
answer. 

She shook her head. All this while she was studying 
my face with an embarrassing intentness. Then she broke 
out— 

“You have an honest face. Be honest like your face, 
sir, and tell me what you want and what you are afraid of. 
Do you think I could hurt you? I believe you have far 
more power to injure me! And yet you do not look un- 
kind. What do you mean—you, a gentleman—by skulking 
like a spy about this desolate place? Tell me,” she said, 
“who is it you hate? ” 

“IT hate no one,” I answered; “and I fear no one face 
to face. My name is Cassilis—Frank Cassilis. I lead the 
life of a vagabond for my own good pleasure. I am one of 
Northmour’s oldest friends; and three nights ago, when I 
addressed him on these links, he stabbed me in the shoul- 
der with a knife.” 

“Tt was you!” she said. 

“Why he did so,” I continued, disregarding the inter- 
ruption, “is more than I can guess, and more than I care 
to know. I have not many friends, nor am I very sus- 
ceptible to friendship; but no man shall drive me from a 
place by terror. I had camped in the Graden Sea-Wood 
ere he came; I camp in it still. If you think I mean harm 
to you or yours, madame, the remedy is in your hand. 
Tell him that my camp is in the Hemlock Den, and to- 
night he can stab me in safety while I sleep.” 

With this I doffed my cap to her, and scrambled up once 
more among the sand hills. I do not know why, but I felt 
a prodigious sense of injustice, and felt like a hero and a 


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Scotch Mystery Stories 


martyr; while as a matter of fact, I had not a word to say 
in my defense, nor so much as one plausible reason to offer 
for my conduct. I had stayed at Graden out of a curiosity 
natural enough, but undignified; and though there was 
another motive growing in along with the first, it was not 
one which, at that period, I could have properly explained 
to the lady of my heart. 

Certainly, that night, I thought of no one else; and, 
though her whole conduct and position seemed suspicious, 
I could not find it in my heart to entertain a doubt of her 
integrity. I could have staked my life that she was clear 
of blame, and, though all was dark at the present, that the 
explanation of the mystery would show her part in these 
events to be both right and needful. It was true, let me 
cudgel my imagination as I pleased, that I could invent no 
theory of her relations to Northmour; but I felt none the 
less sure of my conclusion because it was founded on in- 
stinct in place of reason, and, as I may say, went to sleep 
that night with the thought of her under my pillow. 

Next day she came out about the same hour alone, and, 
as soon as the sand hills concealed her from the pavilion, 
drew nearer to the edge, and called me by name in guarded 
tones. I was astonished to observe that she was deadly 
pale, and seemingly under the influence of strong emotion. 

“Wie. Cassilis!” she cried: “ Mr. Cassilis!” 

I appeared at once, and leaped down upon the beach. A 
remarkable air of relief overspread her countenance as soon 
as she saw me. 

“Oh!” she cried, with a hoarse sound, like one whose 
bosom had been lightened of a weight. And then, “ Thank 
God you are still safe!” she added; “I knew, if you were, 
you would be here.” (Was not this strange? So swiftly 
and wisely does Nature prepare our hearts for these great 
lifelong intimacies, that both my wife and I had been given 
a presentiment on this the second day of our acquaintance. 
I had even then hoped that she would seek me; she had felt 
sure that she would find me.) ‘“ Do not,” she went on 
swiftly, “do not stay in this place. Promise me that you 

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Robert Louis Stevenson 


will sleep no longer in that wood. You do not know how 
I suffer; all last night I could not sleep for thinking of 
your peril.” 3 

“ Peril!” I repeated. “ Peril from whom? From North- 
mour?”’ 

“Not so,” she said. “ Did you think I would tell him 
after what you said?” 

“Not from Northmour?” I repeated. “Then how? 
From whom? I see none to be afraid of.” 

“You must not ask me,” was her reply, “for I am not 
free to tell you. Only believe me, and go hence—believe 
me, and go away quickly, quickly, for your life!” 

An appeal to his alarm is never a good plan to rid one- 
self of a spirited young man. My obstinacy was but in- 
creased by what she said, and I made it a point of honor to 
remain. And her solicitude for my safety still more con- 
firmed me in the resolve. 

“You must not think me inquisitive, madame,” I replied: 
“but, if Graden is so dangerous a place, you yourself per- 
haps remain here at some risk.” 

She only looked at me reproachfully. 

“You and your father—” I resumed; but she interrupted 
me almost with a gasp. 

“My father! How do you know that?” she cried. 

“T saw you together when you landed,” was my answer; 
and I do not know why, but it seemed satisfactory to both 
of us, as indeed it was truth. “ But,’ I continued, “ you 
need have no fear from me. I see you have some reason 
to be secret, and, you may believe me, your secret is as safe 
with me as if I were in Graden Floe. I have scarce spoken 
to anyone for years; my horse is my only companion, and 
even he, poor beast, is not beside me. You see, then, you 
may count on me for silence. So tell me the truth, my 
dear young lady, are you not in danger?” 

“Mr. Northmour says you are an honorable man,” she 
returned, “ and I believe it when I see you. I will tell you 
so much; you are right: we are in dreadful, dreadful dan- 
ger, and you share it by remaining where you are.” 


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Scotch Mystery Stories 


“ Ah!” said I; “ you have heard of me from Northmour? 

And he gives me a good character? ” 
~ “T asked him about you last night,” was her reply. “TI 
pretended,” she hesitated, “I pretended to have met you 
long ago, and spoken to you of him. It was not true; but 
I could not help myself without betraying you, and you had 
put me ina difficulty. He praised you highly.” 

“And—you may permit me one question—does this dan- 
ger come from Northmour?” I asked. 

“From Mr. Northmour?” she cried. “Oh, no, he stays 
with us to share it.” 

“While you propose that I should run away?” I said. 
“You do not rate me very high.” 

“Why should you stay?” she asked. “ You are no friend 
of ours.” 

I know not what came over me, for I had not been con- 
scious of a similar weakness since I was a child, but I was 
so mortified by this retort that my eyes pricked and filled 
with tears, as I continued to gaze upon her face. 

“No, no,” she said, in a changed voice; “I did not mean 
the words unkindly.” 

“Tt was I who offended,” I said; and I held out my 
hand with a look of appeal that somehow touched her, for 
she gave me hers at once, and even eagerly. I held it for 
awhile in mine, and gazed into her eyes. It was she who 
first tore her hand away, and, forgetting all about her re- 
quest and the promise she had sought to extort, ran at the 
top of her speed, and without turning, till she was out of 
sight. And then I knew that I loved her, and thought in 
my glad heart that she—she herself—was not indifferent to 
my suit. Many a time she has denied it in after days, but 
it was with a smiling and not a serious denial. For my 
part, I am sure our hands would not have lain so closely 
in each other if she had not begun to melt to me al- 
ready. And, when all is said, it is no great contention, 
since, by her own avowal, she began to love me on the 
morrow. 

And yet on the morrow very little took place. She came 


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Robert Louis Stevenson 


and called me down as on the day before, upbraided me 
for lingering at Graden, and, when she found I was still 
obdurate, began to ask me more particularly as to my ar- 
rival. I told her by what series of accidents I had come to 
witness their disembarkation, and how I had determined to 
remain, partly from the interest which had been awakened 
in me by Northmour’s guests, and partly because of his 
own murderous attack. As to the former, I fear I was 
disingenuous, and led her to regard herself as having been 
an attraction to me from the first moment that I saw her 
on the links. It relieves my heart to make this confession 
even now, when my wife is with God, and already knows 
all things, and the honesty of my purpose even in this; for 
while she lived, although it often pricked my conscience, I 
had never the hardihood to undeceive her. Even a little 
secret, in such a married life as ours, is like the rose leaf 
which kept the princess from her sleep. 

From this the talk branched into other subjects, and I 
told her much about my lonely and wandering existence; 
she, for her part, giving ear, and saying little. Although 
we spoke very naturally, and latterly on topics that might 
seem indifferent, we were both sweetly agitated. Too 
soon it was time for her to go; and we separated, as if by 
mutual consent, without shaking hands, for both knew that, 
between us, it was no idle ceremony. 

The next, and that was the fourth day of our acquaint- 
ance, we met in the same spot, but early in the morning, 
with much familiarity and yet much timidity on either side. 
While she had once more spoken about my danger—and 
that, I understood, was her excuse for coming—I, who had 
prepared a great deal of talk during the night, began to 
tell her how highly I valued her kind interest, and how no 
one had ever cared to hear about my life, nor had I ever 
cared to relate it, before yesterday. Suddenly she inter- 
rupted me, saying with vehemence— 

“And yet, if you knew who I was, you would not so 
much as speak to me! ” 

I told her such a thought was madness, and, little as we 


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Scotch Mystery Stories 


had met, I counted her already a dear friend; but my prot- 
estations seemed only to make her more desperate. 

“My father is in hiding!” she cried. 

“My dear,” I said, forgetting for the first time to add 
“young lady,” “ what doI care? IfI were in hiding twenty 
times over, would it make one thought of change in you?” 

“ Ah, but the cause!” she cried, “the cause! It is "— 
she faltered for a second—“ it is disgraceful to us!” 


IV 


THIS was my wife’s story, as I drew it from her among 
tears and sobs. Her name was Clara Huddlestone: it 
sounded very beautiful in my ears; but not so beautiful as 
that other name of Clara Cassilis, which she wore during 
the longer and, I thank God, the happier portion of her 
life. Her father, Bernard Huddlestone, had been a private 
banker in a very large way of business. Many years before, 
his affairs becoming disordered, he had been led to try dan- 
gerous, and at last criminal, expedients to retrieve himself 
from ruin. All was in vain; he became more and more 
cruelly involved, and found his honor lost at the same mo- 
ment with his fortune. About this period, Northmour had 
been courting his daughter with great assiduity, though 
with small encouragement; and to him, knowing him thus 
disposed in his favor, Bernard Huddlestone turned for help 
in his extremity. It was not merely ruin and dishonor, nor 
merely a legal condemnation, that the unhappy man had 
brought upon his head. It seems he could have gone to 
prison with a light heart. What he feared, what kept him 
awake at night or recalled him from slumber into frenzy, 
was some secret, sudden, and unlawful attempt upon his 
life. Hence, he desired to bury his existence and escape 
to one of the islands in the South Pacific, and it was in 
Northmour’s yacht, the “ Red Earl,” that he designed to go. 
The yacht picked them up clandestinely upon the coast of 
Wales, and had once more deposited them at Graden, till 

176 


Robert Louis Stevenson 


she could be refitted and provisioned for the longer voyage. 
Nor could Clara doubt that her hand had been stipulated 
as the price of passage. For, although Northmour was 
neither unkind, nor even discourteous, he had shown him- 
self in several instances somewhat overbold in speech and 
manner. 

I listened, I need not say, with fixed attention, and put 
many questions as to the more mysterious part. It was in 
vain. She had no clear idea of what the blow was, nor of 
how it was expected to fall. Her father’s alarm was un- 
feigned and physically prostrating, and he had thought 
more than once of making an unconditional surrender to 
the police. But the scheme was finally abandoned, for he 
was convinced that not even the strength of our English 
prisons could shelter him from his pursuers. He had had 
many affairs in Italy, and with Italians resident in London, 
in the latter years of his business; and these last, as Clara 
fancied, were somehow connected with the doom that 
threatened him. He had shown great terror at the pres- 
ence of an Italian seaman on board the “ Red Earl,” and 
had bitterly and repeatedly accused Northmour in conse- 
quence. The latter had protested that Beppo (that was the 
seaman’s name) was a capital fellow, and could be trusted 
to the death; but Mr. Huddlestone had continued ever since 
to declare that all was lost, that it was only a question of 
days, and that Beppo would be the ruin of him yet. 

I regarded the whole story as the hallucination of a mind 
shaken by calamity. He had suffered heavy loss by his 
Italian transactions; and hence the sight of an Italian 
was hateful to him, and the principal part in his night- 
mare would naturally enough be played by one of that 
nation. 

“What your father wants,” I said, “is a good doctor and 
some calming medicine.” 

“But Mr. Northmour?” objected Clara. “He is un- 
troubled by losses, and yet he shares in this terror.” 

I could not help laughing at what I considered her sim- 
plicity. 

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Scotch Mystery Stories 


“My dear,” said I, “you have told me yourself what 
reward he has to look for. All is fair in love, you must 
remember; and if Northmour foments your father’s ter- 
rors, it is not at all because he is afraid of any Italian man, 
but simply because he is infatuated with a charming Eng- 
lish woman.” 

She reminded me of his attack upon myself on the night 
of the disembarkation, and this I was unable to explain. 
In short, and from one thing to another, it was agreed be- 
tween us that I should set out at once for the fisher village, 
Graden Wester, as it was called, look up all the newspapers 
I could find, and see for myself if there seemed any basis 
of fact for these continued alarms. The next morning, at 
the same hour and place, I was to make my report to Clara. 
She said no more on that occasion about my departure; 
nor, indeed, did she make it a secret that she clung to the 
thought of my proximity as something helpful and pleas- 
ant; and, for my part, I could not have left her, if she had 
gone upon her knees to ask it. 

I reached Graden Wester before ten in the forenoon; for 
in those days I was an excellent pedestrian, and the dis- 
tance, as I think I have said, was little over seven miles; 
fine walking all the way upon the springy turf. The vil- 
lage is one of the bleakest on that coast, which is saying 
much: there is a church in the hollow; a miserable haven 
in the rocks, where many boats have been lost as they re- 
turned from fishing; two or three score of stone houses 
arranged along the beach and in two streets, one leading 
from the harbor, and another striking out from it at right 
angles; and, at the corner of these two, a very dark and 
cheerless tavern, by way of principal hotel. 

I had dressed myself somewhat more suitably to my sta- 
tion in life, and at once called upon the minister in his lit- 
tle manse beside the graveyard. He knew me, although 
it was more than nine years since we had met; and when I 
told him that I had been long upon a walking tour, and 
was behind with the news, readily lent me an armful of 
newspapers, dating from a month back to the day before. 


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Robert Louis Stevenson 


With these I sought the tavern, and, ordering some break- 
fast, sat down to study the “ Huddlestone Failure.” 

It had been, it appeared, a very flagrant case. Thou- 
sands of persons were reduced to poverty; and one in par- 
ticular had blown out his brains as soon as payment was 
suspended. It was strange to myself that, while I read 
these details, I continued rather to sympathize with Mr. 
Huddlestone than with his victims; so complete already 
was the empire of my love for my wife. A price was natu- 
rally set upon the banker’s head; and, as the case was in- 
excusable and the public indignation thoroughly aroused, 
the unusual figure of £750 was offered for his capture. He 
was reported to have large sums of money in his possession. 
One day, he had been heard of in Spain; the next, there 
was sure intelligence that he was still lurking between Man- 
chester and Liverpool, or along the border of Wales; and 
the day after, a telegram would announce his arrival in 
Cuba or Yucatan. But in all this there was no word of an 
Italian, nor any sign of mystery. 

In the very last paper, however, there was one item not 
so clear. The accountants who were charged to verify the 
failure had, it seemed, come upon the traces of a very large 
number of thousands, which figured for some time in the 
transactions of the house of Huddlestone; but which came 
from nowhere, and disappeared in the same mysterious 
fashion. It was only once referred to by name, and then 
under the initials “ X. X.”; but it had plainly been floated 
for the first time into the business at a period of great de- 
pression some six yearsago. The name of a distinguished 
royal personage had been mentioned by rumor in connec- 
tion with this sum. ‘“ The cowardly desperado ’’—such, I 
remember, was the editorial expression—was supposed to 
have escaped with a large part of this mysterious fund still 
in his possession. 

I was still brooding over the fact, and trying to torture it 
into some connection with Mr. Huddlestone’s danger, when 
a man entered the tavern and asked for some bread and 
cheese with a decided foreign accent. 


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Scotch Mystery Stories 


“ Siete Italiano?”’ said I. 
“ Si, Signor,” was his reply. 

I said it was unusually far north to find one of his com- 
patriots; at which he shrugged his shoulders, and replied 
that a man would go anywhere to find work. What work 
he could hope to find at Graden Wester, I was totally 
unable to conceive; and the incident struck so unpleasantly 
upon my mind, that I asked the landlord, while he was 
counting me some change, whether he had ever before seen 
an Italian in the village. He said he had once seen some 
Norwegians, who had been shipwrecked on the other side 
of Graden Ness and rescued by the lifeboat from Cauld- 
haven. 

“No!” said I; “ but an Italian, like the man who has 
just had bread and cheese.” 

“What?” cried he, “yon black-avised fellow wi’ the 
teeth? Was he an I-talian? Weel, yon’s the first that 
ever I saw, an’ I dare say he’s like to be the last.” 

Even as he was speaking, I raised my eyes, and, casting 
a glance into the street, beheld three men in earnest con- 
versation together, and not thirty yards away. One of 
them was my recent companion in the tavern parlor; the 
other two, by their handsome sallow features and soft hats, 
should evidently belong to the same race. A crowd of vil- 
lage children stood around them, gesticulating and talking 
gibberish in imitation. The trio looked singularly foreign 
to the bleak dirty street in which they were standing and 
the dark gray heaven that overspread them; and I confess 
my incredulity received at that moment a shock from which 
it never recovered. I might reason with myself as I pleased, 
but I could not argue down the effect of what I had seen, 
and I began to share in the Italian terror. 

It was already drawing toward the close of the day be- 
fore I had returned the newspapers to the manse, and got 
well forward on to the links on my way home. I shall 
never forget that walk. It grew very cold and boisterous; 
the wind sung in the short grass about my feet; thin rain 
showers came running on the gusts; and an immense 

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Robert Louis Stevenson 


mountain range of clouds began to arise out of the bosom 
of the sea. It would be hard to imagine a more dismal 
evening; and whether it was from these external influences, 
or because my nerves were already affected by what I had 
heard and seen, my thoughts were as gloomy as the 
weather. 

The upper windows of the pavilion commanded a consid- 
erable spread of links in the direction of Graden Wester. 
To avoid observation, it was necessary to hug the beach 
until I had gained cover from the higher sand hills on the 
little headland, when I might strike across, through the 
hollows, for the margin of the wood. The sun was about 
setting; the tide was low, and all the quicksands uncov- 
ered; and I was moving along, lost in unpleasant thought, 
when I was suddenly thunderstruck to perceive the prints 
of human feet. They ran parallel to my own course, but 
low down upon the beach, instead of along the border of 
the turf; and, when I examined them, I saw at once, by 
the size and coarseness of the impression, that it was a 
stranger to me and to those of the pavilion who had re- 
cently passed that way. Not only so; but from the reck- 
lessness of the course which he had followed, steering near 
to the most formidable portions of the sand, he was evi- 
dently a stranger to the country and to the ill-repute of 
Graden beach. 

Step by step I followed the prints; until, a quarter of a 
mile farther, I beheld them die away into the southeastern 
boundary of Graden Floe. There, whoever he was, the 
miserable man had perished. One or two gulls, who had, 
perhaps, seen him disappear, wheeled over his sepulcher 
with their usual melancholy piping. The sun had broken 
through the clouds by a last effort, and colored the wide 
level of quicksands with a dusky purple. I stood for some 
time gazing at the spot, chilled and disheartened by my 
own reflections, and with a strong and commanding con- 
sciousness of death. I remember wondering how long the 
tragedy had taken, and whether his screams had been audi- 
ble at the pavilion. And then, making a strong resolu- 

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Scotch Mystery Stories 


tion, I was about to tear myself away, when a gust fiercer 
than usual fell upon this quarter of the beach, and I saw, 
now whirling high in air, now skimming lightly across the 
surface of the sands, a soft, black, felt hat, somewhat coni- 
cal in shape, such as I had remarked already on the heads 
of the Italians. 

I believe, but I am not sure, that I uttered acry. The 
wind was driving the hat shoreward, and I ran round the 
border of the floe to be ready against its arrival. The gust 
fell, dropping the hat for awhile upon the quicksand, and 
then, once more freshening, landed it a few yards from 
where I stood. I seized it with the interest you may im- 
agine. It had seen some service; indeed, it was rustier 
than either of those I had seen that day upon the street. 
The lining was red, stamped with the name of the maker, — 
which I have forgotten, and that of the place of manufac- 
ture, Venedig. This (it is not yet forgotten) was the name 
given by the Austrians to the beautiful city of Venice, then, 
and for long after, a part of their dominions. 

The shock was complete. I saw imaginary Italians upon 
every side; and for the first, and, I may say, for the last 
time in my experience, became overpowered by what is 
called a panic terror. I knew nothing, that is, to be afraid 
of, and yet I admit that I was heartily afraid; and it was 
with sensible reluctance that I returned to my exposed and 
solitary camp in the Sea-Wood. 

There I eat some cold porridge which had been left over 
from the night before, for I was disinclined to make a fire; 
and, feeling strengthened and reassured, dismissed all these 
fanciful terrors from my mind, and lay down to sleep with 
composure. 

How long I may have slept it is impossible for me to 
guess; but I was awakened at last by a sudden, blinding 
flash of light into my face. It woke me like a blow. In an 
instant I was upon my knees. But the light had gone as 
suddenly as it came. The darkness was intense. And, as 
it was blowing great guns from the sea, and pouring with 
rain, the noises of the storm effectually concealed all others. 

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It was, I dare say, half a minute before I regained my 
self-possession. But for two circumstances, I should have 
thought I had been awakened by some new and vivid form 
of nightmare. First, the flap of my tent, which I had shut 
carefully when I retired, was now unfastened; and, second, 
I could still perceive, with a sharpness that excluded any 
theory of hallucination, the smell of hot metal and of burn- 
ing oil. The conclusion was obvious. I had been awak- 
ened by some one flashing a bull’s-eye lantern in my face. 
It had been but a flash, and away. He had seen my face, 
and then gone. I asked myself the object of so strange a 
proceeding, and the answer came pat. The man, whoever 
he was, had thought to recognize me, and he had not. 
There was another question unresolved; and to this, I may 
say, I feared to give an answer; if he had recognized me, 
what would he have done? 

My fears were immediately diverted from myself, for I 
saw that I had been visited in a mistake; and I became per- 
suaded that some dreadful danger threatened the pavilion. 
It required some nerve to issue forth into the black and in- 
tricate thicket which surrounded and overhung the den; 
but I groped my way to the links, drenched with rain, 
beaten upon and deafened by the gusts, and fearing at 
every step to lay my hand upon some lurking adversary. 
The darkness was so complete that I might have been sur- 
rounded by an army and yet none the wiser, and the up- 
roar of the gale so loud that my hearing was as useless as 
my sight. | 

For the rest of that night, which seemed interminably 
long, I patrolled the vicinity of the pavilion, without seeing 
a living creature or hearing any noise but the concert of 
the wind, the sea, and the rain. A light in the upper story 
filtered through a cranny of the shutter, and kept me com- 
pany till the approach of dawn. 


Scotch Mystery Stories 


V 


Wi1rTH the first peep of day, I retired from the open to my 
old lair among the sand hills, there to await the coming of 
my wife. The morning was gray, wild, and melancholy ; the 
wind moderated before sunrise, and then went about, and 
blew in puffs from the shore; the sea began to go down, 
but the rain still fell without mercy. Over all the wilder- 
ness of links there was notacreature to be seen. Yet I felt 
sure the neighborhood was alive with skulking foes. The 
light that had been so suddenly and surprisingly flashed upon 
my face as I lay sleeping, and the hat that had been blown 
ashore by the wind from over Graden Floe, were two speak- 
ing signals of the peril that environed Clara and the party 
in the pavilion. 

It was, perhaps, half-past seven, or nearer eight, before I 
saw the door open, and that dear figure come toward me in 
the rain. I was waiting for her on the beach before she had 
crossed the sand hills. 

“T have had such trouble to come!” she cried. “ They 
did not wish me to go walking in the rain.” 

“ Clara,” I said, “ you are not frightened! ” 

“No,” said she, with a simplicity that filled my heart with 
confidence. For my wife was the bravest as well as the best 
of women; in my experience, I have not found the two go 
always together, but with her they did; and she combined 
the extreme of fortitude with the most endearing and beauti- 
ful virtues. 

I told her what had happened; and, though her cheek 
grew visibly paler, she retained perfect control over her 
senses. 

“You see now that I am safe,” said I, in conclusion. 
“They do not mean to harm me; for, had they chosen, I 
was a dead man last night.” 

She laid her hand upon my arm. 

“And I had no presentiment! ” she cried. 

Her accent thrilled me with delight. I put my arm about 

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her, and strained her to my side; and, before either of us 
was aware, her hands were on my shoulders and my lips 
upon her mouth. Yet up to that moment no word of love 
had passed between us. To this day I remember the touch 
of her cheek, which was wet and cold with the rain; and 
many a time since, when she has been washing her face, I 
have kissed it again for the sake of that morning on the 
beach. Now that she is taken from me, and I finish my 
pilgrimage alone, I recall our old loving kindnesses and the 
deep honesty and affection which united us, and my present 
loss seems but a trifle in comparison. 

We may have thus stood for some seconds — for time 
passes quickly with lovers—before we were startled by a 
peal of laughter close at hand. It was not natural mirth, 
but seemed to be affected in order to conceal an angrier feel- 
ing. We both turned, though I still kept my left arm about 
Clara’s waist; nor did she seek to withdraw herself; and 
there, a few paces off upon the beach, stood Northmour, his 
head lowered, his hands behind his back, his nostrils white 
with passion. 

“ Ah! Cassilis!”’ he said, as I disclosed my face. 

“That same,” said I; for I was not at all put about. 

“And so, Miss Huddlestone,” he continued slowly. but 
savagely, “this is how you keep your faith to your father 
and to me? This is the value you set upon your father’s 
life? And you are so infatuated with this young gentleman 
that you must brave ruin, and decency, and common human 
caution ss 

“Miss Huddlestone—” I was beginning to interrupt him, 
when he, in his turn, cut in brutally— 

“You hold your tongue,” said he; “‘ I am speaking to that 
girl.” 

“That girl, as you call her, is my wife,” said I; and my 
wife only leaned a little nearer, so that I knew she had af- 
firmed my words. 

“Your what?” he cried. “ You lie!” 

“ Northmour,” I said, “ we all know you have a bad tem- 
per, and I am the last man to be irritated by words. For all 

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that, I propose that you speak lower, for I am convinced 
that we are not alone.” 

He looked round him, and it was plain my remark had in 
some degree sobered his passion. “ What do you mean?” 
he asked. | 

I only said one word: “ Italians.” 

He swore a round oath, and looked at us, from one to the 
other. 

“Mr. Cassilis knows all that I know,” said my wife. 

“What I want to know,” he broke out, “is where the 
devil Mr. Cassilis comes from, and what the devil Mr. Cas- 
silis is doing here. You say you are married; that I do not 
believe. If you were, Graden Floe would soon divorce you ; 
four minutes and a half, Cassilis. I keep my private ceme- 
tery for my friends.” 

“Tt took somewhat longer,” said I, “ for that Italian.” 

He looked at me for a moment half daunted, and then, 
almost civilly, asked me to tell my story. ‘“ You have too 
much the advantage of me, Cassilis,” he added. I complied 
of course; and he listened, with several ejaculations, while 
I told him how I had come to Graden: that it was I whom 
he had tried to murder on the night of landing; and what 
I had subsequently seen and heard of the Italians. 

“Well,” said he, when I had done, “it is here at last; 
there is no mistake about that. And what, may I ask, do 
you propose to do?” 

“T propose to stay with you and lend a hand,” said I. 

“You are a brave man,” he returned, with a peculiar in- 
tonation. 

“T am not afraid,” said I. 

“And so,” he continued, “I am to understand that you 
two are married? And you stand up to it before my face, 
Miss Huddlestone?”’ 

“We are not yet married,” said Clara; “ but we shall be 
as soon as we can.” 

“Bravo!” cried Northmour. “ And the bargain? D—n 
it, you’re not a fool, young woman; I may call a spade a 
spade with you. How about the bargain? You know as 

186 


Robert Louis Stevenson 


well as I do what your father’s life depends upon. I have 
only to put my hands under my coat tails and walk away, 
and his throat would be cut before the evening.” 

“Yes, Mr. Northmour,” returned Clara, with great spirit; 
“but that is what you will never do. You made a bargain 
that was unworthy of a gentleman; but you are a gentleman 
for all that, and you will never desert a man whom you have 
begun to help.” 

“ Aha!” said he. “ You think I will give my yacht for 
nothing? You think I will risk my life and liberty for love 
of the old gentleman; and then, I suppose, be best man at 
the wedding, to wind up? Well,” he added, with an odd 
smile, “ perhaps you are not altogether wrong. But ask 
Cassilis here. He knows me. Am I a man to trust? Am 
I safe and scrupulous? Am I kind?” 

“T know you talk a great deal, and sometimes, I think, 
very foolishly,” replied Clara, “ but I know you are a gen- 
tleman, and I am not the least afraid.” 

He looked at her with a peculiar approval and admiration ; 
then, turning to me, “Do you think I would give her up 
without a struggle, Frank?” said he. “I tell you plainly, 
you look out. The next time we come to blows “ 

“ Will make the third,” I interrupted, smiling. 

“ Aye, true; so it will,” he said. “I had forgotten. Well, 
the third time’s lucky.” 

‘The third time, you mean, you will have the crew of the 
‘Red Earl’ to help,” I said. 

“Do you hear him? ” he asked, turning to my wife. 

“T hear two men speaking like cowards,” said she. “TI 
should despise myself either to think or speak like that. And 
neither of you believe one word that you are saying, which 
makes it the more wicked and silly.” 

“‘She’s a trump!” cried Northmour. “ But she’s not yet 
Mrs. Cassilis. I say no more. The present is not for me.” 

Then my wife surprised me. 

“T leave you here,” she said suddenly. “ My father has 
been too long alone. But remember this: you are to be 
friends, for you are both good friends to me.” 

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She has since told me her reason for this step. As long 
as she remained, she declares that we two would have con- 
tinued to quarrel ; and I suppose that she was right, for when 
she was gone we fell at once into a sort of confidentiality. 

Northmour stared after her as she went away over the 
sand hill. 

“ She is the only woman in the world!” he exclaimed with 
an oath. “ Look at her action.” 

I, for my part, leaped at this opportunity for a little fur- 
ther light. 

“See here, Northmour,” said I; “we are all in a tight 
place, are we not?” 

“T believe you, my boy,” he answered, looking me in the 
eyes, and with great emphasis. “ We have all hell upon us, 
that’s the truth. You may believe me or not, but I’m afraid | 
of my life.” 

“Tell me one thing,” said I. ‘ What are they after, these 
Italians? What do they want with Mr. Huddlestone? ” 

“Don’t you know?” he cried. “ The black old scamp had 
carbonart funds on a deposit—two hundred and eighty thou- 
sand; and of course he gambled it away on stocks. There 
was to have been a revolution in the Tridentino, or Parma; 
but the revolution is off, and the whole wasp’s nest is after 
Huddlestone. We shall all be lucky if we can save our 
skins.” 

“ The carbonari!”’ I exclaimed; “ God help him indeed!” 

“ Amen!” said Northmour. “ And now, look here: I have 
said that we are in a fix; and, frankly, I shall be glad of 
your help. If I can’t save Huddlestone, I want at least to 
save the girl. Come and stay in the pavilion; and, there’s 
my hand on it, I shall act as your friend until the old man 
is either clear or dead. But,’ he added, “ once that is set- 
tled, you become my rival once again, and I warn you— 
mind yourself.” 

“Done! ” said I; and we shook hands. 

“And now let us go directly to the fort,” said North- 
mour ; and he began to lead the way through the rain. 


188 


Robert Louis Stevenson 


VI 


WE were admitted to the pavilion by Clara, and I was 
surprised by the completeness and security of the defenses. 
A barricade of great strength, and yet easy to displace, sup- 
ported the door against any violence from without; and the 
shutters of the dining-room, into which I was led directly, 
and which was feebly illuminated by a lamp, were even more 
elaborately fortified. The panels were strengthened by bars 
and crossbars ; and these, in their turn, were kept in position 
by a system of braces and struts, some abutting on the floor, 
some on the roof, and others, in fine, against the opposite 
wall of the apartment. It was at once a solid and well-de- 
signed piece of carpentry; and I did not seek to conceal my 
admiration. 

“T am the engineer,” said Northmour. “ You Tee 
the planks in the garden? Behold them?” 

“T did not know you had so many talents,” said I. 

“Are you armed?” he continued, pointing to an array 
of guns and pistols, all in admirable order, which stood in 
line against the wall or were displayed upon the sideboard. 

“Thank you,” I returned; “I have gone armed since our 
last encounter. But, to tell you the truth, I have had noth- 
ing to eat since early yesterday evening.” 

Northmour produced some cold meat, to which I eagerly 
set myself, and a bottle of good Burgundy, by which, wet 
as I was, I did not scruple to profit. I have always been 
an extreme temperance man on principle; but it is useless 
to push principle to excess, and on this occasion I believe 
that I finished three quarters of the bottle. As I eat, I still 
continued to admire the preparations for defense. 

“We could stand a siege,” I said at length. 

“Ye—es,” drawled Northmour; “a very little one, per— 
haps. It is not so much the strength of the pavilion I mis- 
doubt; it is the double danger that kills me. If we get to 
shooting, wild as the country is, some one is sure to hear it, 
and then—why then it’s the same thing, only different, as 


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they say: caged by law, or killed by carbonari. There’s the 
choice. It is a devilish bad thing to have the law against 
you in this world, and so I tell the old gentleman upstairs. 
He is quite of my way of thinking.” 

“ Speaking of that,” said I, “ what kind of person is he? ” 

“Oh, he!” cried the other; “ he’s a rancid fellow, as far 
as he goes. I should like to have his neck wrung to-morrow 
by all the devils in Italy. I am not in this affair for him. 
‘You take me? I made a bargain for missy’s hand, and I 
mean to have it too.” 

“That, by the way,” said I. “I understand. but how 
will Mr. Huddlestone take my intrusion? ” 

“ Leave that to Clara,” returned Northmour. 

I could have struck him in the face for his coarse famil- 
iarity ; but I respected the truce, as, I am bound to say, did | 
Northmour, and so long as the danger continued not a cloud 
arose in our relation. I bear him this testimony with the 
most unfeigned satisfaction; nor am I without pride when 
I look back upon my own behavior. For surely no two men 
were ever left in a position so invidious and irritating. 

As soon as I had done eating, we proceeded to inspect the 
lower floor. Window by window we tried the different sup- 
ports, now and then making an inconsiderable change; and 
the strokes of the hammer sounded with startling loudness 
through the house. I proposed, I remember, to make loop- 
holes; but he told me they were already made in the win- 
dows of the upper story. It was an anxious business, this 
inspection, and left me down-hearted. There were two doors 
and five windows to protect, and, counting Clara, only four 
of us to defend them against an unknown number of foes. 
I communicated my doubts to Northmour, who assured me, 
with unmoved composure, that he entirely shared them. 

“Before morning,” said he, “we shall all be butchered 
and buried in Graden Floe. For me, that is written.” 

I could not help shuddering at the mention of the quick- 
sand, but reminded Northmour that our enemies had spared 
me in the wood. 

“Do not flatter yourself,” said he. ‘“ Then you were not 


190 


Robert Louis Stevenson 


in the same boat with the old gentleman; now you are. It’s 
the floe for all of us, mark my words.” 

I trembled for Clara; and just then her dear voice was 
heard calling us to come upstairs. Northmour showed me 
the way, and, when he had reached the landing, knocked 
at the door of what used to be called My Uncle’s Bedroom, 
as the founder of the pavilion had designed it especially for 
himself. 

“Come in, Northmour; come in, dear Mr. Cassilis,” said 
a voice from within. 

Pushing open the door, Northmour admitted me before 
him into the apartment. As I came in I could see the daugh- 
ter slipping out by the side door into the study, which had 
been prepared as her bedroom. In the bed, which was drawn 
back against the wall, instead of standing, as I had last seen 
it, boldly across the window, sat Bernard Huddlestone, the 
defaulting banker. Little as I had seen of him by the shift- 
ing light of the lantern on the links, I had no difficulty in 
recognizing him for the same. He had a long and sallow 
countenance, surrounded by a long red beard and side- 
whiskers. His broken nose and high cheek-bones gave him 
somewhat the air of a Kalmuck, and his light eyes shone 
with the excitement of a high fever. He wore a skull-cap 
of black silk; a huge Bible lay open before him on the bed, 
with a pair of gold spectacles in the place, and a pile of 
other books lay on the stand by his side. The green cur- 
tains lent a cadaverous shade to his cheek; and, as he sat 
propped on pillows, his great stature was painfully hunched, 
and his head protruded till it overhung his knees. I believe 
if he had not died otherwise, he must-have fallen a victim 
to consumption in the course of but a very few weeks. 

He held out to me a hand, long, thin, and disagreeably 
hairy. 

“Come in, come in, Mr. Cassilis,” said he. “ Another pro- 
tector—ahem !—another protector. Always welcome as a 
friend of my daughter’s, Mr. Cassilis. How they have ral- 
lied about me, my daughter’s friends! May God in heaven 
bless and reward them for it!” 


19I 


Scotch Mystery Stories 


I gave him my hand, of course, because I could not help 
it; but the sympathy I had been prepared to feel for Clara’s 
father was immediately soured by his appearance, and the 
wheedling, unreal tones in which he spoke. 

“ Cassilis is a good man,” said Northmour ; “ worth ten.” 

“So I hear,” cried Mr. Huddlestone eagerly ; “so my girl 
tells me. Ah, Mr. Cassilis, my sin has found me out, you 
see! [I am very low, very low; but I hope equally penitent. 
We must all come to the throne of grace at last, Mr. Cas- 
silis. For my part, I come late indeed; but with unfeigned 
Aumility, I trust.” 

“ Fiddle-de-dee! ” said Northmour roughly. 

“No, no, dear Northmour!” cried the banker. “ You 
must not say that; you must not try to shake me. You for- 
get, my dear, good boy, you forget I may be called this very 
night before my Maker.” | 

His excitement was pitiful to behold; and I felt myself 
grow indignant with Northmour, whose infidel opinions I 
well knew, and heartily despised, as he continued to taunt 
the poor sinner out of his humor of repentance. 

“Pooh, my dear Huddlestone!” said he. “ You do your- 
self injustice. You are a man of the world inside and out, 
and were up to all kinds of mischief before I was born. 
‘Your conscience is tanned like South American leather— 
only you forgot to tan your liver, and that, if you will be- 
lieve me, is the seat of the annoyance.” 

“Rogue, rogue! bad boy!” said Mr. Huddlestone, shak- 
ing his finger. “I am no precisian, if you come to that; I 
always hated a precisian ; but I never lost hold of something 
better through it all. I have been a bad boy, Mr. Cassilis ; 
I do not seek to deny that; but it was after my wife’s death, 
and you know, with a widower, it’s a different thing: sinful 
—I won’t say no; but there is a gradation, we shall hope. 
And talking of that— Hark!” he broke out suddenly, his 
hand raised, his fingers spread, his face racked with interest 
and terror. “Only the rain, bless God!” he added, after a 
pause, and with indescribable relief. 

For some seconds he lay back among the pillows like 

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Robert Louis Stevenson 


a man near to fainting; then he gathered himself to- 
gether, and, in somewhat tremulous tones, began once 
more to thank me for the share I was prepared to take 
in his defense. 

“One question, sir,” said I, when he had paused. “ Is it 
true that you have money with you?” 

He seemed annoyed by the question, but admitted with 
reluctance that he had a little. 

“ Well,” I continued, “it is their money they are after, 
is it not? Why not give it up to them?” 

“Ah!” replied he, shaking his head, “I have tried that 
already, Mr. Cassilis; and alas! that it should be so, but it 
is blood they want.” 

“ Huddlestone, that’s a little less than fair,” said North- 
mour. “ You should mention that what you offered them 
was upward of two hundred thousand short. The deficit is 
worth a reference; it is for what they call a cool sum, Frank. 
Then, you see, the fellows reason in their clear Italian way ; 
and it seems to them, as indeed it seems to me, that they 
may just as well have both while they’re about it—money 
and blood together, by George, and no more trouble for the 
extra pleasure.” 

“Ts it in the pavilion?” I asked. 

“It is; and I wish it were in the bottom of the sea in- 
stead,” said Northmour; and then suddenly—‘‘ What are 
you making faces at me for?” he cried to Mr. Huddlestone, 
on whom I had unconsciously turned my back. “Do you 
think Cassilis would sell you?” 

Mr. Huddlestone protested that nothing had been further 
from his mind. 

“It is a good thing,” retorted Northmour in his ugliest 
manner. “ You might end by wearying us. What were you 
going to say?” he added, turning to me. 

“T was going to propose an occupation for the afternoon,” 
said I. “ Let us carry that money out, piece by piece, and 
lay it down before the pavilion door. If the carbonari come, 
why, it’s theirs at any rate.” 

“No, no,” cried Mr. Huddlestone; “ it does not, it can- 


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Scotch Mystery Stories 


not, belong to them! It should be distributed pro rata among 
all my creditors.” 

“Come now, Huddlestone,” said Northmour, “none of 
that.” 

“ Well, but my daughter,” moaned the wretched man. 

“Your daughter will do well enough. Here are two suit- 
ors, Cassilis and IJ, neither of us beggars, between whom she 
has to choose. And as for yourself, to make an end of argu- 
ments, you have no right to a farthing, and, unless I’m much 
mistaken, you are going to die.” 

It was certainly very cruelly said; but Mr. Huddlestone 
was a man who attracted little sympathy; and, although I 
saw him wince and shudder, I mentally indorsed the re- 
buke; nay, I added a contribution of my own. 

“ Northmour and I,” I said, “are willing enough to help 
you to save your life, but not to escape with stolen prop- 
erty.” 

He struggled for awhile with himself, as though he were 
on the point of giving way to anger, but prudence had the 
best of the controversy. 

_“ My dear boys,” he said, “ do with me or my money what 
you will. I leave all in your hands. Let me compose my- 
self.” 

And so we left him, gladly enough I am sure. 

The last that I saw, he had once more taken up his great 
Bible, and with tremulous hands was adjusting his specta- 
cles to read. 


Vil 


THE recollection of that afternoon will always be graven 
on my mind. Northmour and I were persuaded that an at- 
tack was imminent; and if it had been in our power to alter 
in any way the order of events, that power would have been 
used to precipitate rather than delay the critical moment. 
The worst was to be anticipated; yet we could conceive no 
extremity so miserable as the suspense we were now suffer- 
ing. I have never been an eager, though always a great, 


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Robert Louis Stevenson 


reader; but I never knew books so insipid as those which 
I took up and cast aside that afternoon in the pavilion. Even 
talk became impossible, as the hours went on. One or other 
was always listening for some sound, or peering from an 
upstairs window over the links. And yet not a sign indi- 
cated the presence of our foes. 

We debated over and over again my proposal with regard 
to the money; and had we been in complete possession of 
our faculties, I am sure we should have condemned it as 
unwise; but we were flustered with alarm, grasped at a 
straw, and determined, although it was as much as adver- 
tising Mr. Huddlestone’s presence in the pavilion, to carry 
my proposal into effect. 

The sum was part in specie, part in bank paper, and part 
in circular notes payable to the name of James Gregory. 
We took it out, counted it, inclosed it once more in a dis- 
patch box belonging to Northmour, and prepared a letter 
in Italian which he tied to the handle. It was signed by 
both of us under oath, and declared that this was all the 
money which had escaped the failure of the house of Hud- 
dlestone. This was, perhaps, the maddest action ever per- 
petrated by two persons professing to be sane. Had the 
dispatch box fallen into other hands than those for which 
it was intended, we stood criminally convicted on our own 
written testimony; but, as I have said, we were neither of 
us in a condition to judge soberly, and had a thirst for 
action that drove us to do something, right or wrong, rather 
than endure the agony of waiting. Moreover, as we were 
both convinced that the hollows of the links were alive with 
hidden spies upon our movements, we hoped that our ap- 
pearance with the box might lead to a parley, and, perhaps, 
a compromise. 

It was nearly three when we issued from the pavilion. 
The rain had taken off; the sun shone quite cheerfully. I 
had never seen the gulls fly so close about the house or ap- 
proach so fearlessly to human beings. On the very door- 
step one flapped heavily past our heads, and uttered its wild 
cry in my very ear. 


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“There is an omen for you,” said Northmour, who like 
all freethinkers was much under the influence of supersti- 
tion. “ They think we are already dead.” 

I made some light rejoinder, but it was with half my 
heart; for the circumstance had impressed me. 

A yard or two before the gate, on a patch of smooth turf, 
we set down the dispatch box; and Northmour waved a 
white handkerchief over his head. Nothing replied. We 
raised our voices, and cried aloud in Italian that we were 
there as ambassadors to arrange the quarrel, but the stillness 
remained unbroken save by the seagulls and the surf. I 
had a weight at my heart when we desisted ; and I saw that 
even Northmour was unusually pale. He looked over his 
shoulder nervously, as though he feared that some one had 
crept between him and the pavilion door. . 

“By God,” he said in a whisper, “this is too much for 
me!” 

I replied in the same key: “ Suppose there should be none, 
after all!” 

“Look there,” he returned, nodding with his head, as 
though he had been afraid to point. 

I glanced in the direction indicated; and there, from the 
northern quarter of the Sea-Wood, beheld a thin column of 
smoke rising steadily against the now cloudless sky. 

“Northmour,” I said (we still continued to talk in whis- 
pers), “it is not possible to endure this suspense. I prefer 
death fifty times over. Stay you here to watch the pavilion; 
I will go forward and make sure, if I have to walk right 
into their camp.” 

He looked once again all round him with puckered eyes, 
and then nodded assentingly to my proposal. 

My heart beat like a sledge hammer as I set out walking 
rapidly in the direction of the smoke; and, though up to that 
moment I had felt chill and shivering, I was suddenly con- 
scious of a glow of heat all over my body. The ground in 
this direction was very uneven; a hundred men might have 
lain hidden in as many square yards about my path. But 
I who had not practiced the business in vain, chose such 


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routes as cut at the very root of concealment, and, by keep- 
ing along the most convenient ridges, commanded several 
hollows at a time. It was not long before I was rewarded 
for my caution. Coming suddenly on to a mound some- 
what more elevated than the surrounding hummocks, I saw, 
not thirty yards away, a man bent almost double, and run- 
ning as fast as his attitude permitted, along the bottom of 
a gully. I had dislodged one of the spies from his ambush. 
As soon as I sighted him, I called loudly both in English 
and Italian; and he, seeing concealment was no longer pos- 
sible, straightened himself out, leaped from the gully, and 
made off as straight as an arrow for the borders of the 
wood. It was none of my business to pursue; I had learned 
what I wanted—that we were beleaguered and watched in 
the pavilion; and I returned at once, and walked as nearly 
as possible in my old footsteps, to where Northmour awaited 
me beside the dispatch box. He was even paler than when 
I had left him, and his voice shook a little. 

“Could you see what he was like?” he asked. 

“He kept his back turned,” I replied. 

“Let us get into the house, Frank. I don’t think ’ma 
coward, but I can stand no more of this,” he whispered. 

All was still and sunshiny about the pavilion, as we turned 
to reénter it; even the gulls had flown in a wider circuit, 
and were seen flickering along the beach and sand hills; and 
this loneliness terrified me more than a regiment under arms. 
It was not until the door was barricaded that I could draw 
a full inspiration and relieve the weight that lay upon my 
bosom. Northmour and I exchanged a steady glance; and 
I suppose each made his own reflections on the white and 
startled aspect of the other. 

“You were right,” I said. “ All is over. Shake hands, 
old man, for the last time.” 

“Yes,” replied he, “I will shake hands; for, as sure as 
I am here, I bear no malice. But, remember, if, by some 
impossible accident, we should give the slip to these black- 
guards, I’ll take the upper hand of you by fair or foul.” 

“Oh,” said I, “ you weary me!” 

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He seemed hurt, and walked away in silence to the foot 
of the stairs, where he paused. 

“You do not understand,” said he. “I am not a swin- 
dler, and I guard myself; that is all. I may weary you or 
not, Mr. Cassilis, I do not care a rush; I speak for my own 
satisfaction, and not for your amusement. You had better 
go upstairs and court the girl; for my part, I stay here.” 

“And I stay with you,” I returned. “Do you think I 
would steal a march, even with your permission? ” 

“Frank,” he said, smiling, “it’s a pity you are an ass, 
for you have the makings of a man. I think I must be fey 
to-day; you cannot irritate me even when you try. Do 
you know,” he continued softly, “I think we are the two 
most miserable men in England, you and I? we have got 
on to thirty without wife or child, or so much as a shop to 
look after—poor, pitiful, lost devils, both! And now we 
clash about a girl! As if there were not several millions in 
the United Kingdom! Ah, Frank, Frank, the one who loses 
his throw, be it you or me, he has my pity! It were better 
for him—how does the Bible say?—that a millstone were 
hanged about his neck and he were cast into the depth of 
the sea. Let us take a drink,” he concluded suddenly, but 
without any levity of tone. 

I was touched by his words, and consented. He sat down 
on the table in the dining-room, and held up the glass of 
sherry to his eye. 

“Tf you beat me, Frank,” he said, “ I shall take to drink. 
What will you do, if it goes the other way?” 

“God knows,” I returned. 

“ Well,” said he, “ here is a toast in the meantime: ‘ Jtalia 
irredenta!’” 

The remainder of the day was passed in the same dreadful 
tedium and suspense. I laid the table for dinner, while 
Northmour and Clara prepared the meal together in the 
kitchen. I could hear their talk as I went to and fro, and 
was surprised to find it ran all the time upon myself. North- 
mour again bracketed us together, and rallied Clara on a 
choice of husbands; but he continued te speak of me with 


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some feeling, and uttered nothing to my prejudice unless he 
included himself in the condemnation. This awakened a 
sense of gratitude in my heart, which combined with the 
immediateness of our peril to fill my eyes with tears. After 
all, I thought—and perhaps the thought was laughably vain 
—we were here three very noble human beings to perish in 
defense of a thieving banker. 

Before we sat down to table, I looked forth from an up- 
stairs window. The day was beginning to decline; the links 
were utterly deserted; the dispatch box still lay untouched 
where we had left it hours before. 

Mr. Huddlestone, in a long yellow dressing gown, took 
one end of the table, Clara the other ; while Northmour and 
T faced each other from the sides. The lamp was brightly 
trimmed; the wine was good; the viands, although mostly 
cold, excellent of their sort. We seemed to have agreed 
tacitly ; all reference to the impending catastrophe was care- 
fully avoided ; and, considering our tragic circumstances, we 
made a merrier party than could have been expected. From 
time to time, it is true, Northmour or I would rise from table 
and make a round of the defenses; and, on each of these 
occasions, Mr. Huddlestone was recalled to a sense of his 
tragic predicament, glanced up with ghastly eyes, and bore 
for an instant on his countenance the stamp of terror. But 
he hastened to empty his glass, wiped his forehead with his 
handkerchief, and joined again in the conversation. 

I was astonished at the wit and information he displayed. 
Mr. Huddlestone’s was certainly no ordinary character; he 
had read and observed for himself; his gifts were sound; 
and, though I could never have learned to love the man, I 
began to understand his success in business, and the great 
respect in which he had been held before his failure. He 
had, above all, the talent of society; and though I never 
heard him speak but on this one and most unfavorable oc- 
casion, I set him down among the most brilliant conversa- 
tionalists I ever met. 

He was relating with great gusto, and seemingly no feel- 
ing of shame, the maneuvers of a scoundrelly commission 

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merchant whom he had known and studied in his youth, and 
we were ail listening with an odd mixture of mirth and em- 
barrassment, when our little party was brought abruptly to 
an end in the most startling manner. 

A noise like that of a wet finger on the window pane in- 
terrupted Mr. Huddlestone’s tale; and in an instant we were 
all four as white as paper, and sat tongue-tied and motion- 
less round the table. 

“A snail,” I said at last; for I had heard that these ani- 
mals make a noise somewhat similar in character. 

“Snail be d——d!” said Northmour. “ Hush!” 

The same sound was repeated twice at regular intervals; 
and then a formidable voice shouted through the shutters 
the Italian word, ‘‘ Traditore!”’ 

Mr. Huddlestone threw his head in the air; his eyelids 
quivered; next moment he fell insensible below the table. 
Northmour and I had each run to the armory and seized a 
gun. Clara was on her feet with her hand at her throat. 

So we stood waiting, for we thought the hour of attack 
was certainly come; but second passed after second, and all 
but the surf remained silent in the neighborhood of the 
pavilion. 

“ Quick,” said Northmour; “upstairs with him before 
they come.” 


VIELE 


SoMEHOw or other, by hook and crook, and between the 
three of us, we got Bernard Huddlestone bundled upstairs 
and laid upon the bed in My Uncle’s Room. During the 
whole process, which was rough enough, he gave no sign of 
consciousness, and he remained, as we had thrown him, 
without changing the position of a finger. His daughter 
opened his shirt and began to wet his head and bosom; while 
Northmour and I ran to the window. The weather con- 
tinued clear; the moon, which was now about full, had risen 
and shed a very clear light upon the links; yet, strain our 
eyes as we might, we could distinguish nothing moving. A 

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Robert Louis Stevenson 


few dark spots, more or less, on the uneven expanse were 
not to be identified; they might be crouching men, they 
might be shadows; it was impossible to be sure. 

“ Thank God,” said Northmour, “ Aggie is not coming’ 
to-night.” 

Aggie was the name of the old nurse; he had not thought 
of her until now; but that he should think of her at all was 
a trait that surprised me in the man. 

We were again reduced to waiting. Northmour went to 
the fireplace and spread his hands before the red embers, 
as if he were cold. I followed him mechanically with my 
eyes, and in so doing turned my back upon the window. At 
that moment a very faint report was audible from without, 
and a ball shivered a pane of glass, and buried itself in the 
shutter two inches from my head. I heard Clara scream; 
and though I whipped instantly out of range and into 2 
corner, she was there, so to speak, before me, beseeching 
to know if I were hurt. I felt that I could stand to be shot 
at every day and all day long, with such remarks of solici- 
tude for a reward; and I continued to reassure her, with 
the tenderest caresses and in complete forgetfulness of 
our situation, till the voice of Northmour recalled me to 
myself. 

“An air gun,” he said. “ They wish to make no noise.” 

I put Clara aside, and looked at him. He was standing 
with his back to the fire and his hands clasped behind him; 
and. I knew by the black look on his face, that passion was 
boiling within. I had seen just such a look before he at- 
tacked me, that March night, in the adjoining chamber ; and, 
though I could make every allowance for his anger, I con- 
fess I trembled for the consequences. He gazed straight 
before him; but he could see us with the tail of his eye, and 
his temper kept rising like a gale of wind. With regular 
battle awaiting us outside, this prospect of an internecine 
strife within the walls began to daunt me. 

Suddenly, as I was thus closely watching his expression 
and prepared against the worst, I saw a change, a flash, a 
look of relief, upon his face. He took up the lamp which 

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stood beside him on the table, and turned to us with an air 
of some excitement. 

“There is one point that we must know,” said he. “ Are 
they going to butcher the lot of us, or only Huddlestone? 
Did they take you for him, or fire at you for your own 
beaux yeux?” 

' “They took me for him, for certain,” I replied. “I am 
near as tall, and my head is fair.” 

“T am going to make sure,” returned Northmour; and 
he stepped up to the window, holding the lamp above his 
head, and stood there, quietly affronting death, for half a 
minute. 

Clara sought to rush forward and pull him from the place 
of danger; but I had the pardonable selfishness to hold her 
back by force. | 

“Yes,” said Northmour, turning coolly from the window, 
“it’s only Huddlestone they want.” 

“Oh, Mr. Northmour!” cried Clara; but found no more 
to add; the temerity she had just witnessed seeming beyond 
the reach of words. 

He, on his part, looked at me, cocking his head, with a 
fire of triumph in his eyes; and I understood at once that 
he had thus hazarded his life, merely to attract Clara’s 
notice, and depose me from my position as the hero of the 
hour. He snapped his fingers. 

“The fire is only beginning,” said he. “ When they warm 
up to their work, they won’t be so particular.” 

A voice was now heard hailing us from the entrance. 
From the window we could see the figure of a man in the 
moonlight; he stood motionless, his face uplifted to ours, 
and a rag of something white on his extended arm; and as 
we looked right down upon him, though he was a good 
many yards distant on the links, we could see the moon- 
light glitter on his eyes. 

He opened his lips again, and spoke for some minutes on 
end, in a key so loud that he might have been heard in every 
corner of the pavilion, and as far away as the borders of 
the wood. It was the same voice that had already shouted, 

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Robert Louis S tevenson 


“ Traditore!”’ through the shutters of the dining-room; this 
time it made a complete and clear statement. If the traitor 
“ Oddlestone ” were given up, all others should be spared; 
if not, no one should escape to tell the tale. | 

“Well, Huddlestone, what do you say to that?” asked 
Northmour, turning to the bed. 

Up to that moment the banker had given no sign of life, 
and I, at least, had supposed him to be still lying in a faint; 
but he replied at once, and in such tones as I have never 
heard elsewhere, save from a delirious patient, adjured and 
besought us not to desert him. It was the most hideous and 
abject performance that my imagination can conceive. 
~ “ Enough,” cried Northmour ; and then he threw open the 
window, leaned out into the night, and in a tone of exulta- 
tion, and with a total forgetfulness of what was due to the 
presence of a lady, poured out upon the ambassador a string 
of the most abominable raillery both in English and Italian, 
and bade him be gone where he had come from. I believe 
that nothing so delighted Northmour at that moment as the 
thought that we must all infallibly perish before the night 
was out. 

Meantime, the Italian put his flag of truce into his pocket, 
and disappeared, at a leisurely pace, among the sand hills. 

“They make honorable war,” said Northmour. “ They 
are all gentlemen and soldiers. For the credit of the thing, 
I wish we could change sides—you and I, Frank, and you, 
too, missy, my darling—and leave that being on the bed to 
some one else. Tut! Don’t look shocked! We are all go- 
ing post to what they call eternity, and may as well be above 
board while there’s time. As far as I am concerned, if I 
could first strangle Huddlestone and then get Clara in my 
arms, I could die with some pride and satisfaction. And 
as it is, by God, I’ll have a kiss!” 

Before I could do anything to interfere, he had rudely 
embraced and repeatedly kissed the resisting girl. Next mo- 
ment I had pulled him away with fury, and flung him 
heavily against the wall. He laughed loud and long, and 
I feared his wits had given way under the strain; for even 

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Scotch Mystery Stories 


in the best of days he had been a sparing and a quiet 
laugher. 

“ Now, Frank,” said he, when his mirth was somewhat 
appeased, “it’s your turn. Here’s my hand. Good-bye, 
farewell!” Then, seeing me stand rigid and indignant, and 
holding Clara to my side—‘ Man!” he broke out, “are you 
angry? Did you think we were going to die with all the 
airs and graces of society? I took a kiss; I’m glad I did it; 
and now you can take another if you like, and square ac- 
counts.”’ 

I turned from him with a feeling of contempt which I 
did not seek to dissemble. 

“As you please,” said he. “ You’ve been a prig in life; 
a prig you'll die.” 

And with that he sat down in a chair, a rifle over his 
knee, and amused himself with snapping the lock; but I 
could see that his ebullition of light spirits (the only one I 
ever knew him to display) had already come to an end, and 
was succeeded by a sullen, scowling humor. 

All this time our assailants might have been entering the 
house, and we been none the wiser; we had in truth almost 
forgotten the danger that so imminently overhung our days. 
But just then Mr. Huddlestone uttered a cry, and leaped 
from the bed. 

I asked him what was wrong. 

“Fire!” he cried. “They have set the house on fire! ” 

Northmour was on his feet in an instant, and he and I 
ran through the door of communication with the study. The 
room was illuminated by a red and angry light. Almost at 
the moment of our entrance, a tower of flame arose in front 
of the window, and, with a tingling report, a pane fell in- 
ward on the carpet. They had set fire to the lean-to out- 
house, where Northmour used to nurse his negatives. 

“Hot work,” said Northmour. “Let us try in your old 
room.” 

We ran thither in a breath, threw up the casement, and 
looked forth. Along the whole back wall of the pavilion 
piles of fuel had been arranged and kindled; and it is prob- 

204. 


Robert Louis Stevenson 


able they had. been drenched with mineral oil, for, in spite 
of the morning’s rain, they all burned bravely. The fire had 
taken a firm hold already on the outhouse, which blazed 
higher and higher every moment ; the back door was in the 
center of a red-hot bonfire; the eaves we could see, as we 
looked upward, were already smoldering, for the roof over- 
hung, and was supported by considerable beams of wood. 
At the same time, hot, pungent, and choking volumes of 
smoke began to fill the house. There was not a human be- 
ing to be seen to right or left. 

“ Ah, well!” said Northmour, “here’s the end, thank 
God!” 

And we returned to My Uncle’s Room. Mr. Huddlestone 
was putting on his boots, still violently trembling, but with 
an air of determination such as I had not hitherto observed. 
Clara stood close by him, with her cloak in both hands 
ready to throw about her shoulders, and a strange look 
in her eyes, as if she were half hopeful, half doubtful of 
her father. 

“Well, boys and girls,” said Northmour, “how about a 
sally? The oven is heating; it is not good to stay here and 
be baked; and, for my part, I want to come to my hands 
with them, and be done.” 

“ There’s nothing else left,” I replied. | 

And both Clara and Mr. Huddlestone, though with a very 
different intonation, added, “ Nothing.” 

As we went downstairs the heat was excessive, and the 
roaring of the fire filled our ears ; and we had scarce reached 
the passage before the stairs window fell in, a branch of 
flame shot brandishing through the aperture, and the in- 
terior of the pavilion became lighted up with that dreadful 
and fluctuating glare. At the same moment we heard the 
fall of something heavy and inelastic in the upper story. 
The whole pavilion, it was plain, had gone alight like a box 
of matches, and now not only flamed sky high to land and 
sea, but threatened with every moment to crumble and fall 
in about our ears. 

Northmour and I cocked our revolvers. Mr. Huddle- 

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Scotch Mystery Stories 


stone, who had already refused a firearm, put us behind him 
with a manner of command. 

“Let Clara open the door,” said he. “So, if they fire 
a volley, she will be protected. And in the meantime stand 
behind me. I am the scapegoat; my sins have found me 
out.” 

I heard him, as I stood breathless by his shoulder, with 
my pistol ready, pattering off prayers in a tremulous, rapid 
whisper; and, I confess, horrid as the thought may seem, I 
despised him for thinking of supplications in a moment so 
critical and thrilling. In the meantime, Clara, who was 
dead white but still possessed her faculties, had displaced 
the barricade from the front door. Another moment, and 
she had pulled it open. Firelight and moonlight illumi- 
nated the links with confused and changeful luster, and far . 
away against the sky we could see a long trail of glowing 
smoke. 

Mr. Huddlestone, filled for the moment with a strength 
greater than his own, struck Northmour and myself a back- 
hander in the chest ; and while we were thus for the moment 
incapacitated from action, lifting his arms above his head 
like one about to dive, he ran straight forward out of the 
pavilion. 

“Here am J!” he cried—“ Huddlestone! Kill me, and 
spare the others!” 

His sudden appearance daunted, I suppose, our hidden 
enemies ; for Northmour and I had time to recover, to seize 
Clara between us, one by each arm, and to rush forth to his 
assistance, ere anything further had taken place. But scarce 
had we passed the threshold when there came near a dozen 
reports and flashes from every direction among the hollows 
of the links. Mr. Huddlestone staggered, uttered a weird 
and freezing cry, threw up his arms over his head, and fell 
backward on the turf. 

“Traditore! Traditore!’’ cried the invisible avengers. 

And just then a part of the roof of the pavilion fell in, so 
rapid was the progress of the fire. A loud, vague, and hor- 
rible noise accompanied the collapse, and a vast volume of 

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Robert Louis Stevenson 


flame went soaring up to heaven. It must have been visible 
at that moment from twenty miles out at sea, from the shore 
at Graden Wester, and far inland from the peak of Gray- 
stiel, the most eastern summit of the Caulder Hills. Ber- 
nard Huddlestone, although God knows what were his obse- 
quies, had a fine pyre at the moment of his death. 


IX 


I SHOULD have the greatest difficulty to tell you what fol- 
lowed next after this tragic circumstance. It is all to me, 
as I look back upon it, mixed, strenuous, and ineffectual, 
like the struggles of a sleeper in a nightmare. Clara, I re- 
member, uttered a broken sigh and would have fallen for- 
ward to earth, had not Northmour and I supported her in- 
sensible body. I do not think we were attacked: I do not 
remember even to have seen an assailant; and fi believe we 
deserted Mr. Huddlestone without a glance. I only remem- 
ber running like a man in a panic, now carrying Clara alto- 
gether in my own arms, now sharing her weight with North- 
mour, now scuffling confusedly for the possession of that 
dear burden. Why we should have made for my camp in 
the Hemlock Den, or how we reached it, are points lost for- 
ever to my recollection. The first moment at which I became 
definitely sure, Clara had been suffered to fall against the 
outside of my little tent, Northmour and I were tumbling 
together on the ground, and he, with contained ferocity, was 
striking for my head with the butt of his revolver. He had 
already twice wounded me on the scalp; and it is to the con- 
sequent loss of blood that I am tempted to attribute the 
sudden clearness of my mind. 

I caught him by the wrist. 

“Northmour,” I remember saying, “you can kill me 
afterwards. Let us first attend to Clara.” 

He was at that moment uppermost. Scarcely had the 
words passed my lips, when he had leaped to his feet and 
ran toward the tent; and the next moment, he was strain- 

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Scotch Mystery Stortes 


ing Clara to his heart and covering her unconscious hands 
and face with his caresses. 

“Shame!” I cried. “ Shame to you, Northmour! ” 

And, giddy though I still was, I struck him repeatedly 
upon the head and shoulders. 

He relinquished his grasp, and faced me in the broken 
moonlight. 

“T had you under, and I let you go,” said he; “and 
now you strike me! Coward!” 

“You are the coward,” I retorted. ‘‘ Did she wish your 
kisses while she was still sensible of what you wanted? 
Not she! And now she may be dying; and you waste this 
precious time, and abuse her helplessness. Stand aside, and 
let me help her.” 

He confronted me for a moment, white and menacing; 
then suddenly he stepped aside. 

“Help her then,” said he. 

I threw myself on my knees beside her, and loosened, as 
well as I was able, her dress and corset; but while I was 
thus engaged, a grasp descended on my shoulder. 

“Keep your hands off her,’ said Northmour, fiercely. 
“Do you think I have no blood in my veins?” 

“Northmour,” I cried, “if you will neither help her 
yourself, nor let me do so, do you know that I shall have 
to kill you?” 

“That is better!” he cried. ‘“ Let her die also, where’s 
the harm? Step aside from that girl! and stand up to 
fight.” 

“You will observe,” said I, half rising, “that I have not 
kissed her yet.” 

“1 dare you to,” he cried. 

I do not know what possessed me; it was one of the 
things I am most ashamed of in my life, though, as my 
wife used to say, I knew that my kisses would be always 
welcome were she dead or living; down I fell again upon 
my knees, parted the hair from her forehead, and, with the 
dearest respect, laid my lips for a moment on that cold 
brow. It was such a caress as a father might have given; 

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Robert Louis Stevenson 


it was such a one as was not unbecoming from a man soon 
to die to a woman already dead. | 

“ And now,” said I, “I am at your service, Mr. North- 
mour.” 

But I saw, to my surprise, that he had turned his back 
upon me. 

“Do you hear?” I asked. 

“Yes,” said he, “I do. If you wish to fight, I am ready. 
If not, go on and save Clara. All is one to me.” 

I did not wait to be twice bidden; but, stooping again 
over Clara, continued my efforts to revive her. She still 
lay white and lifeless; I began to fear that her sweet spirit 
had indeed fled beyond recall, and horror and a sense of 
utter desolation seized upon my heart. I called her by 
name with the most endearing inflections; I chafed and 
beat her hands; now I laid her head low, now supported it 
against my knee; but all seemed to be in vain, and the lids 
still lay heavy on her eyes. 

“ Northmour,” I said, “there is my hat. For God’s sake 
bring some water from the spring.” 

Almost in a moment he was by my side with the water. 

“T have brought it in my own,” he said. “ You do 
not grudge me the privilege?” 

“ Northmour,” I was beginning to say, as I laved her 
head and breast; but he interrupted me savagely. 

“Oh, you hush up!” he said. “ The best thing you car 
do is to say nothing.” 

I had certainly no desire to talk, my mind being swal- 
lowed up in concern for my dear love and her condition; 
so I continued in silence to do my best toward her recovery, 
and, when the hat was empty, returned it to him, with one 
word—*“ More.” He had, perhaps, gone several times 
upon this errand, when Clara reopened her eyes. 

“Now,” said he, “since she is better, you can spare me, 
can you not? I wish you a good night, Mr. Cassilis.” 

And with that he was gone among the thicket. I made 
a fire, for I had now no fear of the Italians, who had even 
spared all the little possessions left in my encampment; 


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Scotch Mystery Stories 


and, broken as she was by the excitement and the hideous 
catastrophe of the evening, I managed, in one way or 
another—by persuasion, encouragement, warmth, and 
such simple remedies as I could lay my hand on—to 
bring her back to some composure of mind and strength 
of body. | 

Day had already come, when a sharp “ Hist!” sounded 
from the thicket. I started from the ground; but the voice 
of Northmour was heard adding, in the most tranquil tones: 
“Come here, Cassilis, and alone; I want to show you 
something.” 

I consulted Clara with my eyes, and, receiving her tacit 
permission, left her alone, and clambered out of the den. 
At some distance off I saw Northmour leaning against an 
elder; and, as soon as he perceived me, he began walking. 
seaward. I had almost overtaken him as he reached the 
outskirts of the wood. 

“Look,” said he, pausing. 

A couple of steps more brougnt me out of the foliage. 
The light of the morning lay cold and clear over that well- 
known scene. The pavilion was but a blackened wreck; 
the roof had fallen in, one of the gables had fallen out; 
and, far and near, the face of the links was cicatrized with 
little patches of burned furze. Thick smoke still went 
straight upward in the windless air of the morning, and a 
great pile of ardent cinders filled the bare walls of the 
house, like coals in an open grate. Close by the islet a 
schooner yacht lay to, and a well-manned boat was pulling 
vigorously for the shore. 

“The ‘Red Earl’!” I cried. “The ‘Red Earl’ twelve 
hours too late!” 

“Feel in your pocket, Frank. Are you armed?” asked 
Northmour. 

I obeyed him, and I think I must have become deadly 
pale. My revolver had been taken from me. 

“You see, I have you in my power,” he continued. “I 
disarmed you last night while you were nursing Clara; but 
this morning—here—take your pistol. No thanks!” he 

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Robert Louts Stevenson 


cried, holding up his hand. “TI do not like them; that is 
the only way you can annoy me now.” 

He began to walk forward across the links to meet the 
boat, and I followed a step or two behind. In front of the 
pavilion I paused to see where Mr. Huddlestone had fallen ; 
but there was no sign of him, nor so much as a trace of 
blood. 

“Graden Floe,” said Northmour. 

He continued to advance till we had come to the head 
of the beach. 

“No farther, please,” said he. “ Would you like to take 
her to Graden House?” 

“Thank you,” replied I; “I shall try to get her to the 
minister at Graden Wester.” 

The prow of the boat here grated on the beach, and a 
sailor jumped ashore with a line in his hand. 

_ “Wait a minute, lads!” cried Northmour; and then 
lower and to my private ear, “ You had better say nothing 
of all this to her,” he added. 

“On the contrary!” I broke out, “ she shall know every- 
thing that I can tell.” 

“You do not understand,” he returned, with an air of 
great dignity. “It will be nothing to her; she expects it 
of me. Good-by!” he added, with a nod. 

I offered him my hand. 

“Excuse me,” said he. “It’s small, I know; but I can’t 
push things quite so far as that. I don’t wish any senti- 
mental business, to sit by your hearth a white-haired wan- 
derer, and all that. Quite the contrary: I hope to God I 
shall never again clap eyes on either one of you.” 

“Well, God bless you, Northmour!” I said heartily. 

“Oh, yes,” he returned. 

He walked down the beach; and the man who was ashore 
gave him an arm on board, and then shoved off and leaped 
into the bows himself. Northmour took the tiller ; the boat 
rose to the waves, and the oars between the tholepins 
sounded crisp and measured in the morning air. 

They were not yet half way to the “ Red Earl,” and I 

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Scotch Mystery Stories 


was still watching their progress, when the sun rose out 
of the sea. 

One word more, and my story is done. Years after, 
Northmour was killed fighting under the colors of Gari- 
baldi for the liberation of the Tyrol. 


212 


Wilkie Collins 
The Dream Woman 


A Mystery in Four Narratives 


THE FIRST NARRATIVE 


INTRODUCTORY STATEMENT OF THE FACTS 
BY PERCY FAIRBANK 


I 


“PH ULLO, there! Hostler! Hullo-o-o!” 
“My dear! why don’t you look for the bell?” 

“T have looked—there is no bell.” 

“And nobody in the yard. How very extraordinary! 
Call again, dear.” 

“ Hostler! Hullo, there! Hostler-r-r!” 

My second call echoes through empty space, and rouses 
nobody—produces, in short, no visible result. I am at the 
end of my resources—I don’t know what to say or what to 
do next. Here I stand in the solitary inn yard of a strange 
town, with two horses to hold, and a lady to take care of. 
By way of adding to my responsibilities, it so happens that 
one of the horses is dead lame, and that the lady is my 
wife. 

Who am I?—you will ask. 

There is plenty of time to answer the question. Nothing 
happens; and nobody appears to receive us. Let me in- 
troduce myself and my wife. 

I am Percy Fairbank—English gentleman—age (let us 
say) forty—no profession— moderate politics — middle 
height—fair complexion—easy character—plenty of money. 

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English Mystery Stories 


My wife is a French lady. She was Mademoiselle Clo- 
tilde Delorge—when I-was first presented to her at her 
father’s house in France. I fell in love with her—I really 
don’t know why. It might have been because I was per- 
fectly idle, and had nothing else to do at the time. Or it 
might have been because all my friends said she was the 
very last woman whom I ought to think of marrying. On 
the surface, I must own, there is nothing in common be- 
tween Mrs. Fairbank and me. She is tall; she is dark; she 
is nervous, excitable, romantic; in all her opinions she 
proceeds to extremes. What could such a woman see in 
me? what could I see in her? I know no more than you 
do. In some mysterious manner we exactly suit each other. 
We have been man and wife for ten years, and our only 
regret is, that we have no children. I don’t know what 
you may think; J call that—upon the whole—a happy mar- 
riage. 

So much for ourselves. The next question is—what has 
brought us into the inn yard? and why am I obliged to 
turn groom, and hold the horses? 

We live for the most part in France—at the country 
house in which my wife and I first met. Occasionally, by 
way of variety, we pay visits to my friends in England. We 
are paying one of those visits now. Our host is an old 
college friend of mine, possessed of a fine estate in Somer- 
setshire ; and we have arrived at his house—called Farleigh 
Hall—toward the close of the hunting season. 

On the day of which I am now writing—destined to be 
a memorable day in our calendar—the hounds meet at Far- 
leigh Hall. Mrs, Fairbank and I are mounted on two of 
the best horses in my friend’s stables. We are quite un- 
worthy of that distinction; for we know nothing and care 
nothing about hunting. On the other hand, we delight in 
riding, and we enjoy the breezy Spring morning and the 
fair and fertile English landscape surrounding us on every 
side. While the hunt prospers, we follow the hunt. But 
when a check occurs—when time passes and patience is 
sorely tried; when the bewildered dogs run hither and 

214 


Wilkie Collins 


thither, and strong language falls from the lips of exas- 
perated sportsmen—we fail to take any further interest in 
the proceedings. We turn our horses’ heads in the direc- 
tion of a grassy lane, delightfully shaded by trees. We 
trot merrily along the lane, and find ourselves on an open 
common. We gallop across the common, and follow the 
windings of a second lane. We cross a brook, we pass 
through a village, we emerge into pastoral solitude among 
the hills. The horses toss their heads, and neigh to each 
other, and enjoy it as much as we do. The hunt is for- 
gotten. We are as happy as a couple of children; we are 
actually singing a French song—when in one moment our 
merriment comes to an end. My wife’s horse sets one of 
his forefeet on a loose stone, and stumbles. His rider’s 
ready hand saves him from falling. But, at the first at- 
tempt he makes to go on, the sad truth shows itseli—a 
tendon is strained; the horse is lame. 

What is to be done? We are strangers in a lonely part 
of the country. Look where we may, we see no signs of a 
human habitation. There is nothing for it but to take the 
bridle road up the hill, and try what we can discover on 
_ the other side. I transfer the saddles, and mount my wife 
on my own horse. He is not used to carry a lady; he 
misses the familiar pressure of a man’s legs on either side 
of him; he fidgets, and starts, and kicks up the dust. I 
follow on foot, at a respectful distance from his heels, lead- 
ing the lame horse. Is there a more miserable object on 
the face of creation than a lame horse? I have seen lame 
men and lame dogs who were cheerful creatures; but I 
never yet saw a lame horse who didn’t look heartbroken 
over his own misfortune. 

For half an hour my wife capers and curvets sideways 
along the bridle road. I trudge on behind her; and the 
heartbroken horse halts behind me. Hard by the top of 
the hill, our melancholy procession passes a Somersetshire 
peasant at work in a field. I summon the man to approach 
us; and the man looks at me stolidly, from the middle of 
the field, without stirring a step. I ask at the top of my 

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English Mystery Stories 


voice how far it is to Farleigh Hall. The Somersetshire 
peasant answers at the top of his voice: 

“‘Vourteen mile. Gi’ oi a drap o’ zyder.” 

I translate (for my wife’s benefit) from the Somerset- 
shire language into the English language. We are four- 
teen miles from Farleigh Hall; and our friend in the field 
desires to be rewarded, for giving us that information, with 
a drop of cider. There is the peasant, painted by himself! 
Quite a bit of character, my dear! Quite a bit of char- 
acter! 

Mrs. Fairbank doesn’t view the study of agricultural 
human nature with my relish. Her fidgety horse will not 
allow her a moment’s repose; she is beginning to lose her 
temper. 

“We can’t go fourteen miles in this way,” she says. 
“Where is the nearest inn? Ask that brute in the field!” 

I take a shilling from my pocket and hold it up in the 
sun. The shilling exercises magnetic virtues. The shil- 
ling draws the peasant slowly toward me from the middle 
of the field. I inform him that we want to put up the 
horses and to hire a carriage to take us back to Farleigh 
Hall. Where can we do that? The peasant answers (with 
his eye on the shilling) : | 

“At Oonderbridge, to be zure.” (At Underbridge, to 
be sure.) 

“Ts it far to Underbridge?”’ 

The peasant repeats, “ Var to Oonderbridge?’’ — and 
laughs at the question. “ Hoo-hoo-hoo!” (Underbridge 
is evidently close by—if we could only find it.) “ Will you 
show us the way, my man?” “ Will you gi’ oi a drap of 
zyder?” I courteously bend my head, and point to the 
shilling. The agricultural intelligence exerts itself. The 
peasant joins our melancholy procession. My wife is a 
fine woman, but he never once looks at my wife—and, 
more extraordinary still, he never even looks at the horses. 
His eyes are with his mind—and his mind is on the shil- 
ling. 

We reach the top of the hill—and, behold on the other 

216 


? 


W ilkie’ Collins 


side, nestling in a valley, the shrine of our pilgrimage, 
the town of Underbridge! Here our guide claims his 
shilling, and leaves us to find out the inn for ourselves. I 
am constitutionally a polite man. I say “ Good morning ” 
at parting. The guide looks at me with the shilling be- 
tween his teeth to make sure that it is a good one. “ Marn- 
in!” he says savagely—and turns his back on us, as if we 
had offended him. A curious product, this, of the growth 
ef civilization. If I didn’t see a church spire at Under- 
bridge, I might suppose that we had lost ourselves on a 
savage island. 


IT 


ARRIVING at the town, we had no difficulty in finding 
the inn. The town is composed of one desolate street ; and 
midway in that street stands the inn—an ancient stone 
building sadly out of repair. The painting on the sign- 
board is obliterated. The shutters over the long range of 
front windows are all closed. A cock and his hens are the 
only living creatures at the door. Plainly, this is one of 
the old inns of the stage-coach period, ruined by the rail- 
way. We pass through the open arched doorway, and find 
no one to welcome us. We advance into the stable yard 
behind; I assist my wife to dismount—and there we are in 
the position already disclosed to view at the opening of 
this narrative. No bell to ring. No human creature to 
answer when I call. I stand helpless, with the bridles of 
the horses in my hand. Mrs. Fairbank saunters gracefully 
down the length of the yard and does—what all women do, 
when they find themselves in a strange place. She opens 
every door as she passes it, and peeps in. On my side, I 
have just recovered my breath, I am on the point of shout- 
ing for the hostler for the third and last time, when I hear 
Mrs. Fairbank suddenly call to me: 

“Percy! come here!” 

Her voice is eager and agitated. She has opened a last 
door at the end of the yard, and has started back from 
217 


English Mystery Stortes 


some sight which has suddenly met her view. I hitch the 
horses’ bridles on a rusty nail in the wall near me, and join 
my wife. She has turned pale, and catches me nervously 
by the arm. 

“ Good heavens!” she cries; “‘ look at that!” 

I look—and what do I see? I see a dingy little stable, 
containing two stalls. In one stall a horse is munching 
his corn. In the other a man is lying asleep on the litter. 

A worn, withered, woebegone man in a hostler’s dress. 
His hollow wrinkled cheeks, his scanty grizzled hair, his 
dry yellow skin, tell their own tale of past sorrow or suffer- 
ing. There is an ominous frown on his eyebrows—there 
is a painful nervous contraction on the side of his mouth. 
I hear him breathing convulsively when I first look in; he 
shudders and sighs in his sleep. It is not a pleasant sight 
to see, and I turn round instinctively to the bright sunlight 
in the yard. My wife turns me back again in the direction 
of the stable door. 

“Wait!” she says. “ Wait! he may do it again.” 

“ Do what again?” 

“He was talking in his sleep, Percy, when I first looked 
in. He was dreaming some dreadful dream. Hush! he’s 
beginning again.” 

I look and listen. The man stirs on his miserable bed. 
The man speaks in a quick, fierce whisper through his 
clinched teeth. “ Wake up! Wake up, there! Murder!” 

There is an interval of silence. He moves one lean arm 
slowly until it rests over his throat; he shudders, and turns 
on his straw; he raises his arm from his throat, and feebly 
stretches it out; his hand clutches at the straw on the side 
toward which he has turned; he seems to fancy that he 
is grasping at the edge of something. I see his lips begin 
to move again; I step softly into the stable; my wife fol- 
lows me, with her hand fast clasped in mine. We both 
bend over him. He is talking once more in his sleep— 
strange talk, mad talk, this time. 

“Light gray eyes” (we hear him say), “and a droop in 
the left eyelid—flaxen hair, with a gold-yellow streak in it 

218 


Wilkie Collins 


—all right, mother! fair, white arms with a down on them— 
little, lady’s hand, with a reddish look round the finger- 
nails—the knife—the cursed knife—first on one side, then 
on the other—aha, you she-devil! where is the knife?” 

He stops and grows restless on a sudden. We see him 
writhing on the straw. He throws up both his hands and 
gasps hysterically for breath. His eyes open suddenly. 
For a moment they look at nothing, with a vacant glitter 
in them—then they close again in deeper sleep. Is he 
dreaming still? Yes; but the dream seems to have taken 
a new course, When he speaks next, the tone is altered; 
the words are few—sadly and imploringly repeated over 
and over again. ‘Say you love me! I am so fond of you. 
Say you love me! say you love me!” He sinks into deeper 
and deeper sleep, faintly repeating those words. They die 
away on his lips. He speaks no more. 

By this time Mrs. Fairbank has got over her terror; she 
is devoured by curiosity now. The miserable creature on 
the straw has appealed to the imaginative side of her char- 
acter. Her illimitable appetite for romance hungers and 
thirsts for more. She shakes me impatiently by the arm. 

“Do you hear? There is a woman at the bottom of it, 
Percy! There is love and murder in it, Percy! Where are 
the people of the inn? Go into the yard, and call to them 
again.” 

My wife belongs, on her mother’s side, to the South of 
France. The South of France breeds fine women with hot 
tempers. I say no more. Married men will understand 
my position. Single men may need to be told that there 
are occasions when we must not only love and honor—we 
must also obey—our wives. 

I turn to the door to obey my wife, and find myself 
confronted by a stranger who has stolen on us unawares. 
The stranger is a tiny, sleepy, rosy old man, with a vacant 
pudding-face, and a shining bald head. He wears drab 
breeches and gaiters, and a respectable square-tailed an- 
cient black coat. I feel instinctively that here is the land- 
lord of the inn. 

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English Mystery Stories 


“Good morning, sir,” says the rosy old man. “I’m a 
little hard of hearing. Was it you that was a-calling just 
now in the yard?” 

Before I can answer, my wife interposes. She insists (in 
a shrill voice, adapted to our host’s hardness of hearing) 
on knowing who that unfortunate person is sleeping on 
the straw. “Where does he come from? Why does he 
say such dreadful things in his sleep? Is he married or 
single? Did he ever fall in love with a murderess? What 
sort of a looking woman was she? Did she really stab him 
or not? In short, dear Mr. Landlord, tell us the whole 
story!” 

Dear Mr. Landlord waits drowsily until Mrs. Fairbank 
has quite done—then delivers himself of his reply as follows: 

“His name’s Francis Raven. He’s an Independent > 
Methodist. He was forty-five year old last birthday. And 
he’s my hostler. That’s his story.” 

My wife’s hot southern temper finds its way to her foot, 
and expresses itself by a stamp on the stable yard. 

The landlord turns himself sleepily round, and looks at 
the horses. “A fine pair of horses, them two in the yard. 
Do you want to put ’em in my stables?” I reply in the 
affirmative by a nod. The landlord, bent on making him- 
self agreeable to my wife, addresses her once more. “I’m 
a-going to wake Francis Raven. He’s an Independent 
Methodist. He was forty-five year old last birthday. And 
he’s my hostler. That’s his story.” 

Having issued this second edition of his interesting nar- 
rative, the landlord enters the stable. We follow him to 
see how he will wake Francis Raven, and what will happen 
upon that. The stable broom stands in a corner; the land- 
lord takes it—advances toward the sleeping hostler—and 
coolly stirs the man up with a broom as if he was a wild 
beast ina cage. Francis Raven starts to his feet with a cry 
of terror—looks at us wildly, with a horrid glare of sus- 
picion in his eyes—recovers himself the next moment— 
and suddenly changes into a decent, quiet, respectable serv- 
ing-man. 

220 


Wilkie Collins 


“T beg your pardon, ma’am. I beg your pardon, sir.” 

The tone and manner in which he makes his apologies 
are both above his apparent station in life. I begin to 
catch the infection of Mrs. Fairbank’s interest in this man. 
We both follow him out into the yard to see what he will 
do with the horses. The manner in which he lifts the in- 
jured leg of the lame horse tells me at once that he under- 
stands his business. Quickly and quietly, he leads the ani- 
mal into an empty stable; quickly and quietly, he gets a 
bucket of hot water, and puts the lame horse’s leg into 
it. “The warm water will reduce the swelling, sir. I 
will bandage the leg afterwards.” All that he does is 
done intelligently; all that he says, he says to the 
purpose. , 

Nothing wild, nothing strange about him now. Is this 
the same man whom we heard talking in his sleep?—the 
same man who woke with that cry of terror and that hor- 
rid suspicion in his eyes? I determine to try him with one 
or two questions. 


iii 


“ Not much to do here,” I say to the hostler. 

“Very little to do, sir,” the hostler replies. 

“ Anybody staying in the house?” 

“The house is quite empty, sir.” 

“T thought you were all dead. I could make nobody 
hear me.” 

“The landlord is very deaf, sir, and the waiter is out on 
an errand.” 

“Yes; and you were fast asleep in the stable. Do you 
often take a nap in the daytime?” 

The worn face of the hostler faintly flushes. His eyes 
look away from my eyes for the first time. Mrs. Fairbank 
furtively pinches my arm. Are we on the eve of a dis- 
covery at last? JI repeat my question. The man has no 
civil alternative but to give me an answer. The answer is 
given in these words: 

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English Mystery Stories 


“T was tired out, sir. You wouldn’t have found me 
asleep in the daytime but for that.” 

“Tired out, eh? You had been hard at work, I sup- 
pose?” 

ANG, Sit 

“What was it, then?” 

He hesitates again, and answers unwillingly, “I was up 
all night.” 

“Up all night? Anything going on in the town?” 

“ Nothing going on, sir.” 

“ Anybody ill?” 

“ Nobody ill, sir.” 

That reply is the last. Try as I may, I can extract noth- 
ing more from him. He turns away and busies himself in 
attending to the horse’s leg. I leave the stable to speak 
to the landlord about the carriage which is to take us back 
to Farleigh Hall. Mrs. Fairbank remains with the hostler, 
and favors me with a look at parting. The look says 
plainly, “J mean to find out why he was up all night. 
Leave him to Me.” 

The ordering of the carriage is easily accomplished. The 
inn possesses one horse and one chaise. The landlord has 
a story to tell of the horse, and a story to tell of the chaise. 
They resemble the story of Francis Raven—with this ex- 
ception, that the horse and chaise belong to no religious 
persuasion. “The horse will be nine year old next birth- 
day. I’ve had the shay for four-and-twenty year. Mr. 
Max, of Underbridge, he bred the horse; and Mr. Pooley, 
of Yeovil, he built the shay. It’s my horse and my shay. 
And that’s their story!”’ Having relieved his mind of these 
details, the landlord proceeds to put the harness on the 
horse. By way of assisting him, I drag the chaise into 
the yard. Just as our preparations are completed, Mrs. 
Fairbank appears. A moment or two later the hostler fol- 
lows her out. He has bandaged the horse’s leg, and is now 
ready to drive us to Farleigh Hall. I observe signs of 
agitation in his face and manner, which suggest that my 
wife has found her way into his confidence. I put the ques- 

222 


Wilkie Collins 


tion to her privately in a corner of the yard. “ Well? 
Have you found out why Francis Raven was up all night?” 

Mrs. Fairbank has an eye to dramatic effect. Instead of 
answering plainly, Yes or No, she suspends the interest and 
excites the audience by putting a question on her side. 

“What is the day of the month, dear?” 

“The day of the month is the first of March.” 

“The first of March, Percy, is Francis Raven’s birth- 
day 

I try to look as if I was interested—and don’t succeed. 

“Francis was born,” Mrs. Fairbank proceeds gravely, 
“at two o’clock in the morning.” 

I begin to wonder whether my wife’s intellect is going 
the way of the landlord’s intellect. “Is that all?” I ask. 

“It is not all,’ Mrs. Fairbank answers. “ Francis Raven 
sits up on the morning of his birthday because he is afraid 
to go to bed.” 

“And why is he afraid to go to bed?” 

“ Because he is in peril of his life.” 

“On his birthday?” 

“On his birthday. At two o’clock in the morning. As 
regularly as the birthday comes round.” 

There she stops. Has she discovered no more than that? 
No more thus far. I begin to feel really interested by this 
time. I ask eagerly what it means? Mrs. Fairbank points 
mysteriously to the chaise—with Francis Raven (hitherto 
our hostler, now our coachman) waiting for us to get in. 
The chaise has a seat for two in front, and a seat for one 
behind. My wife casts a warning look at me, and places 
herself on the seat in front. 

The necessary consequence of this arrangement is that 
Mrs. Fairbank sits by the side of the driver during a jour- 
ney of two hours and more. Need I state the result? It 
would be an insult to your intelligence to state the result. 
Let me offer you my place in the chaise. And let Francis 
Raven tell his terrible story in his own words. 


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Enghsh Mystery Stories 


THE SECOND NARRATIVE 
THE HOSTLER’S STORY.—TOLD BY HIMSELF 


IV 


It is now ten years ago since I got my first warning of 
the great trouble of my life in the Vision of a Dream. 

I shall be better able to tell you about it if you will 
please suppose yourselves to be drinking tea along with us 
in our little cottage in Cambridgeshire, ten years since. 

The time was the close of day, and there were three of 
us at the table, namely, my mother, myself, and my moth- 
er’s sister, Mrs. Chance. These two were Scotchwomen by 
birth, and both were widows. There was no other resem- 
blance between them that I can call to mind. My mother 
had lived all her life in England, and had no more of the 
Scotch brogue on her tongue than I have. My aunt Chance 
had never been out of Scotland until she came to keep 
house with my mother after her husband’s death. And 
when she opened her lips you heard broad Scotch, I can 
tell you, if you ever heard it yet! 

As it fell out, there was a matter of some consequence 
in debate among us that evening. It was this: whether I 
should do well or not to take a long journey on foot the 
next morning. 

Now the next morning happened to be the day before 
my birthday; and the purpose of the journey was to offer 
myself for a situation as groom at a great house in the 
neighboring county to ours. The place was reported as 
likely to fall vacant in about three weeks’ time. I was as 
well fitted to fill it as any other man. In the prosperous 
days of our family, my father had been manager of a train- 
ing stable, and he had kept me employed among the horses 
from my boyhood upward. Please to excuse my troubling 
you with these small matters. They all fit into my story 
farther on, as you will soon find out. My poor mother 
was dead against my leaving home on the morrow. 

224 


W ilkie Collins 


“You can never walk all the way there and all the way 
back again by to-morrow night,” she says. “The end of 
it will be that you will sleep away from home on your 
birthday. You have never done that yet, Francis, since 
your father’s death, I don’t like your doing it now. Wait 
a day longer, my son—only one day.” 

For my own part, I was weary of being idle, and I 
couldn’t abide the notion of delay. Even one day might 
make all the difference. Some other man might take time 
by the forelock, and get the place. 

“ Consider how long I have been out of work,” I says, 
“and don’t ask me to put off the journey. I won't fail 
you, mother. I'll get back by to-morrow night, if I have 
to pay my last sixpence for a lift in a cart.” 

My mother shook her head. “I don’t like it, Francis— 
I don’t like it!”” There was no moving her from that view. 
We argued and argued, until we were both at a deadlock. 
It ended in our agreeing to refer the difference between 
us to my mother’s sister, Mrs. Chance. 

While we were trying hard to convince each other, my 
aunt Chance sat as dumb as a fish, stirring her tea and 
thinking her own thoughts. When we made our appeal 
to her, she seemed as it were to wake up. “ Ye baith refer 
it to my puir judgment?” she says, in her broad Scotch. 
We both answered Yes. Upon that my aunt Chance first 
cleared the tea-table, and then pulled out from the pocket 
of her gown a pack of cards. 

Don’t run away, if you please, with the notion that this 
was done lightly, with a view to amuse my mother and 
me. My aunt Chance seriously believed that she could 
look into the future by telling fortunes on the cards. She 
did nothing herself without first consulting the cards. She 
could give no more serious proof of her interest in my wel- 
fare than the proof which she was offering now. [ don’t 
say it profanely; I only mention the fact—the cards had, 
in some incomprehensible way, got themselves jumbled up 
together with her religious convictions. You meet with 
people nowadays who believe in spirits working by way of 

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English Mystery Stories 


tables and chairs. On the same principle (if there is any 
principle in it) my aunt Chance believed in Providence 
working by way of the cards. 

“Whether you are right, Francie, or your mither— 
whether ye will do weel or ill, the morrow, to go or stay— 
the cairds will tell it. We are a’ in the hands of Proavi- 
dence. The cairds will tell it.” 

Hearing this, my mother turned her head aside, with 
something of a sour look in her face. Her sister’s notions 
about the cards were little better than flat blasphemy to 
her mind. But she kept her opinion to herself. My aunt 
Chance, to own the truth, had inherited, through her late 
husband, a pension of thirty pounds a year. This was an 
important contribution to our housekeeping, and we poor 
relations were bound to treat her with a certain respect. 
As for myself, if my poor father never did anything else 
- for me before he fell into difficulties, he gave me a good 
education, and raised me (thank God) above superstitions 
of all sorts. However, a very little amused me in those 
days; and I waited to have my fortune told, as patiently as 
if I believed in it too! 

My aunt began her hocus pocus by throwing out all the 
cards in the pack under seven. She shuffled the rest with 
her left hand for luck; and then she gave them to me to 
cut. “ Wi’ yer left hand, Francie. Mind that! Pet your 
trust in Proavidence—but dinna forget that your luck’s in 
yer left hand!” A long and roundabout shifting of the 
cards followed, reducing them in number until there were 
just fifteen of them left, laid out neatly before my aunt in 
a half circle. The card which happened to lie outermost, 
at the right-hand end of the circle, was, according to rule 
in such cases, the card chosen to represent Me. By way 
of being appropriate to my situation as a poor groom out 
of employment, the card was—the King of Diamonds. 

“T tak’ up the King o’ Diamants,” says my aunt. “Tf 
count seven cairds fra’ richt to left; and I humbly ask a 
blessing on what follows.” My aunt shut her eyes as if 
she was saying grace before meat, and held up to me the 

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seventh card. I called the seventh card—the Queen of 
Spades. My aunt opened her eyes again in a hurry, and 
cast a sly look my way. ‘“ The Queen o’ Spades means a 
dairk woman. Ye’ll be thinking in secret, Francie, of a 
dairk woman?” 

When a man has been out of work for more than three 
months, his mind isn’t troubled much with thinking of 
women—light or dark. I was thinking of the groom’s 
place at the great house, and I tried to say so. My aunt 
Chance wouldn’t listen. She treated my interpretation with 
contempt. “ Hoot-toot! there’s the caird in your hand! 
If ye’re no thinking of her the day, ye’ll be thinking of her 
the morrow. Where’s the harm of thinking of a dairk 
woman! I was ance a dairk woman myself, before my 
hair was gray. Haud yer peace, Francie, and watch the 
cairds.” 

I watched the cards as I was told. There were seven 
left on the table. My aunt removed two. from one end of 
the row and two from the other, and desired me to call 
the two outermost of the three cards now left on the table. 
I called the Ace of Clubs and the Ten of Diamonds. My 
aunt Chance lifted her eyes to the ceiling with a look of 
devout gratitude which sorely tried my mother’s patience. 
The Ace of Clubs and the Ten of Diamonds, taken to- 
gether, signified—first, good news (evidently the news of 
the groom’s place); secondly, a journey that lay before 
me (pointing plainly to my journey to-morrow!); thirdly 
and lastly, a sum of money (probably the groom’s wages !) 
waiting to find its way into my pockets. Having told my 
fortune in these encouraging terms, my aunt declined to 
carry the experiment any further. “ Eh, lad! it’s a clean 
tempting o’ Proavidence to ask mair o’ the cairds than the 
cairds have tauld us noo. Gae yer ways to-morrow to the 
great hoose. A dairk woman will meet ye at the gate; 
and she’ll have a hand in getting ye the groom’s place, 
wi’ a’ the gratifications and pairquisites appertaining to 
the same. And, mebbe, when yer poaket’s full o’ money, 
yell no’ be forgetting yer aunt Chance, maintaining her 

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ain unblemished widowhood—wi’ Proavidence assisting— 
on thratty punds a year!” 

I promised to remember my aunt Chance (who had the 
defect, by the way, of being a terribly greedy person after 
money) on the next happy occasion when my poor empty 
pockets were to be filled at last. This done, I looked at 
my mother. She had agreed to take her sister for umpire 
between us, and her sister had given it in my favor. She 
raised no more objections. Silently, she got on her feet, 
and kissed me, and sighed bitterly—and so left the room. 
My aunt Chance shook her head. “I doubt, Francie, yer 
puir mither has but a heathen notion of the vairtue of the 
cairds!” 

By daylight the next morning [ set forth on my journey. 
I looked back at the cottage as I opened the garden gate. 
At one window was my mother, with her handkerchief to 
her eyes. At the other stood my aunt Chance, holding up 
the Queen of Spades by way of encouraging me at starting. 
I waved my hands to both of them in token of farewell, 
and stepped out briskly into the road. It was then the 
last day of February. Be pleased to remember, in con- 
nection with this, that the first of March was the day, and 
two o'clock in the morning the hour of my birth. 


Vv 


Now you know how I came to leave home. The next 
thing to tell is, what happened on the journey. 

I reached the great house in reasonably good time con- 
sidering the distance. At the very first trial of it, the 
prophecy of the cards turned out to be wrong. The per- 
son who met me at the lodge gate was not a dark woman 
—in fact, not a woman at all—but a boy. He directed 
me on the way to the servants’ offices; and there again the 
cards were all wrong. I encountered, not one woman, but 
three—and not one of the three was dark. I have stated 
that I am not superstitious, and I have told the truth. 

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But I must own that I did feel a certain fluttering at the 
heart when I made my bow to the steward, and told him 
what business had brought me to the hoffse. His answer 
completed the discomfiture of aunt Chance’s fortune- 
telling. My ill-luck still pursued me. That very morning 
another man had applied for the groom’s place, and had 
got it. =~ 

I swallowed my disappointment as well as I could, and 
thanked the steward, and went to the inn in the village 
to get the rest and food which I sorely needed by this time. 

Before starting on my homeward walk I made some in- 
quiries at the inn, and ascertained that I might save a few 
miles, on my return, by following a new road. Furnished 
with full instructions, several times repeated, as to the 
various turnings I was to take, I set forth, and walked on 
till the evening with only one stoppage for bread and 
cheese. Just as it was getting toward dark, the rain came 
on and the wind began to rise; and I found myself, to 
make matters worse, in a part of the country with which 
I was entirely unacquainted, though I guessed myself to 
be some fifteen miles from home. The first house I found 
to inquire at, was a lonely roadside inn, standing on the 
outskirts of a thick wood. Solitary as the place looked, 
it was welcome to a lost man who was also hungry, thirsty, 
footsore, and wet. The landlord was civil and respectable- 
looking; and the price he asked for a bed was reasonable 
enough. I was grieved to disappoint my mother. But 
there was no conveyance to be had, and I could go no 
farther afoot that night. My weariness fairly forced me 
to stop at the inn. 

I may say for myself that I am a temperate man. My 
supper simply consisted of some rashers of bacon, a slice 
of home-made bread, and a pint of ale. I did not go to 
bed immediately after this moderate meal, but sat up with 
the landlord, talking about my bad prospects and my long 
run of ill-luck, and diverging from these topics to the sub- 
jects of horse-flesh and racing. Nothing was said, either by 
myself, my host, or the few laborers who strayed into the 

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tap-room, which could, in the slightest degree, excite my 
mind, or set my fancy—which is only a small fancy at the 
best of times—playing tricks with my common sense. 

At a little after eleven the house was closed. I went 
round with the landlord, and held the candle while the 
doors and lower windows were being secured. I noticed 
with surprise the strength of the bolts, bars, and iron- 
sheathed shutters. 

“You see, we are rather lonely here,” said the landlord. 
“We never have had any attempts to break in yet, but 
it’s always as well to be on the safe side. When nobody 
is sleeping here, I am the only man in the house. My wife 
and daughter are timid, and the servant girl takes after her 
missuses. Another glass of ale, before you turn in?—No!— 
Well, how such a sober man as you comes to be out ofa 
place is more than I can understand for one.—Here’s where 
you're to sleep. You're the only lodger to-night, and I 
think you'll say my missus has done her best to make you 
comfortable. You’re quite sure you won’t have another 
glass of aleP—Very well. Good night.” 

It was half-past eleven by the clock in the passage as 
we went upstairs to the bedroom. The window looked 
out on the wood at the back of the house. 

I locked my door, set my candle on the chest of drawers, 
and wearily got me ready for bed. The bleak wind was 
still blowing, and the solemn, surging moan of it in the 
wood was very dreary to hear through the night silence. 
Feeling strangely wakeful, I resolved to keep the candle 
alight until I began to grow sleepy. The truth is, I was 
not quite myself. I was depressed in mind by my disap- 
pointment of the morning; and I was worn out in body by 
my long walk. Between the two, I own I couldn’t face the 
prospect of lying awake in the darkness, listening to the 
dismal moan of the wind in the wood. 

Sleep stole on me before I was aware of it; my eyes 
closed, and I fell off to rest, without having so much as 
thought of extinguishing the candle. 

The next thing that I remember was a faint shivering 

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that ran through me from head to foot, and a dreadful 
sinking pain at my heart, such as I had never felt before. 
The shivering only disturbed my slumbers—the pain woke 
me instantly. In one moment I passed from a state of 
sleep to a state of wakefulness—my eyes wide open—my 
mind clear on a sudden as if by a miracle. The candle had 
burned down nearly to the last morsel of tallow, but the 
unsnuffed wick had just fallen off, and the light was, for 
the moment, fair and full. 

Between the foot of the bed and the closet door, I saw 
a person in my room. The person was a woman, standing 
looking at me, with a knife in her hand. It does no credit 
to my courage to confess it—but the truth is the truth. 
I was struck speechless with terror. There I lay with my 
eyes on the woman; there the woman stood (with the knife 
in her hand) with her eyes on me. 

She said not a word as we stared each other in the face; 
but she moved after a little—moved slowly toward the left- 
hand side of the bed. 

The light fell full on her face. A fair, fine woman, with 
yellowish flaxen hair, and light gray eyes, with a droop 
in the left eyelid. I noticed these things and fixed them 
in my mind, before she was quite round at the side of the 
bed. Without saying a word; without any change in the 
stony stillness of her face; without any noise following her 
footfall, she came closer and closer; stopped at the bed- 
head; and lifted the knife to stab me. I laid my arm over 
my throat to save it; but, as I saw the blow coming, I 
threw my hand across the bed to the right side, and jerked 
my body over that way, just as the knife came down, like 
lightning, within a hair’s breadth of my shoulder. 

My eyes fixed on her arm and her hand—she gave me 
time to look at them as she slowly drew the knife out of 
the bed. A white, well-shaped arm, with a pretty down 
lying lightly over the fair skin. A delicate lady’s hand, 
with a pink flush round the finger nails. 

She drew the knife out, and passed back again slowly 
to the foot of the bed; she stopped there for a moment 

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looking at me; then she came on without saying a word; 
without any change in the stony stillness of her face; with- 
out any noise following her footfall—came on to the side 
of the bed where I now lay. 

Getting near me, she lifted the knife again, and I drew 
myself away to the left side. She struck, as before right 
into the mattress, with a swift downward action of her arm; 
and she missed me, as before; by a hair’s breadth. This 
time my eyes wandered from her to the knife. It was like 
the large clasp knives which laboring men use to cut their 
bread and bacon with. Her delicate little fingers did not 
hide more than two thirds of the handle; I noticed that it 
was made of buckhorn, clean and shining as the blade was, 
and looking like new. 

For the second time she drew the knife out of the bed, 
and suddenly hid it away in the wide sleeve of her gown. 
That done, she stopped by the bedside watching me. For 
an instant I saw her standing in that position—then the 
wick of the spent candle fell over into the socket. The 
flame dwindled to a little blue point, and the room grew 
dark. 

A moment, or less, if possible, passed so—and then the 
wick flared up, smokily, for the last time. My eyes were 
still looking for her over the right-hand side of the bed 
when the last flash of light came. Look as I might, I 
could see nothing. The woman with the knife was gone. 

I began to get back to myself again. I could feel my 
heart beating; I could hear the woeful moaning of the 
wind in the wood; I could leap up in bed, and give the 
alarm before she escaped from the house. ‘“ Murder! 
Wake up there! Murder!” 

Nobody answered to the alarm. I rose and groped my 
way through the darkness to the door of the room. By 
that way she must have got in. By that way she must 
have gone out. 

The door of the room was fast locked, exactly as I had 
left it on going to bed! I looked at the window. Fast 
locked too! | 

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Hearing a voice outside, I opened the door. There was 
the landlord, coming toward me along the passage, with 
his. burning candle in one hand, and his gun in the 
other. 

“What is it?” he says, looking at me in no very friendly 
way. 

I could only answer in a whisper, “ A woman, with a 
knife in her hand. In my room. A fair, yellow-haired 
woman. She jabbed at me with the knife, twice over.” 

He lifted his candle, and looked at me steadily from head 
to foot. “She seems to have missed you—twice over.” 

“T dodged the knife as it came down. It struck the bed 
each time. Go in, and see.” 

The landlord took his candle into the bedroom imme- 
diately. In less than a minute he came out again into the 
passage in a violent passion. 

“ The devil fly away with you and your woman with the , 
knife! There isn’t a mark in the bedclothes anywhere. 
What do you mean by coming into a man’s place and 
frightening his family out of their wits by a dream?” 

A dream? The woman who had tried to stab me, not 
a living human being like myself? I began to shake and 
shiver. The horrors got hold of me at the bare thought 
of it. 

“TH leave the house,” I said. “ Better be out on the 
road in the rain and dark, than back in that room, after 
what I’ve seen in it. Lend me the light to get my clothes 
by, and tell me what I’m to pay.” 

The landlord led the way back with his light into the 
bedroom. “Pay?” says he. “ You'll find your score on 
the slate when you go downstairs. I wouldn’t have taken 
you in for all the money you’ve got about you, if I had 
known your dreaming, screeching ways beforehand. Look 
at the bed—where’s the cut of a knife in it? Look at the 
window—is the lock bursted? Look at the door (which I 
heard you fasten yourself)—is it broke in? A murdering 
woman with a knife in my house! You ought to be 
ashamed of yourself! ” 


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My eyes followed his hand as it pointed first to the bed 
—then to the window—then to the door. There was no 
gainsaying it. The bed sheet was as sound as on the day 
it was made. The window was fast. The door hung on 
its hinges as steady as ever. I huddled my clothes on 
without speaking. We went downstairs together. I looked 
at the clock in the bar-room. The time was twenty min- 
utes past two in the morning. I paid my bill, and the 
landlord let me out. The rain had ceased; but the night 
was dark, and the wind was bleaker than ever. Little did 
the darkness, or the cold, or the doubt about the way home 
matter to me. My mind was away from all these things. 
My mind was fixed on the vision in the bedroom. What 
had I seen trying to murder me? The creature of a dream? 
Or that other creature from the world beyond the grave, 
whom men call ghost? I could make nothing of it as I 
walked along in the night; I had made nothing by it by 
midday—when I stood at last, after many times missing 
my road, on the doorstep of home. 


VI 


My mother came out alone to welcome me back. There 
were no secrets between us two. I told her all that had 
happened, just as I have told it to you. She kept silence 
till I had done. And then she put a question to me. 
~“ What time was it, Francis, when you saw the Woman 
in your Dream? ” 

I had looked at the clock when I left the inn, and I had 
noticed that the hands pointed to twenty minutes past two. 
Allowing for the time consumed in speaking to the land- 
lord, and in getting on my clothes, I answered that I must 
have first seen the Woman at two o’clock in the morning. 
In other words, I had not only seen her on my birthday, 
but at the hour of my birth. 

My mother still kept silence. Lost in her own thoughts, 
she took me by the hand, and led me into the parlor. Her 


234 


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writing-desk was on the table by the fireplace. She opened 
it, and signed to me to take a chair by her side. 

“My son! your memory is a bad one, and mine is fast 
failing me. Tell me again what the Woman looked like. I 
want her to be as well known to both of us, years hence, 
as she is now.” 

I obeyed; wondering what strange fancy might be work- 
ing in her mind. I spoke; and she wrote the words as 
they fell from my lips: 

“Light gray eyes, with a droop in the left eyelid. 
Flaxen hair, with a golden-yellow streak in it. White 
arms, with a down upon them. Little, lady’s hands, with 
a rosy-red look about the finger nails.” 

“ Did you notice how she was dressed, Francis?” 

“No, mother.” 

“Did you notice the knife?” 

“Yes. A large clasp knife, with a buckhorn handle, 
as good as new.” 

My mother added the description of the knife. Also the 
year, month, day of the week, and hour of the day when 
the Dream-Woman appeared to me at the inn. That done, 
she locked up the paper in her desk. 

“ Not a word, Francis, to your aunt. Not a word to any 
living soul. Keep your Dream a secret between you and 
me.” 

The weeks passed, and the montlis passed. My mother 
never returned to the subject again. As for me, time, 
which wears out all things, wore out my remembrance of 
the Dream. Little by little, the image of the Woman grew 
dimmer and dimmer. Little by little, she faded out of my 
mind. 


VII 


THE story of the warning is now told. Judge for your- 
self if it was a true warning or a false, when you hear what 
happened to me on my next birthday. 

In the Summer time of the year, the Wheel of Fortune 


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turned the right way for me at last. I was smoking my 
pipe one day, near an old stone quarry at the entrance to 
our village, when a carriage accident happened, which gave 
a new turn, as it were, to my lot in life. It was an acci- 
dent of the commonest kind—not worth mentioning at 
any length. A lady driving herself; a runaway horse; a 
cowardly man-servant in attendance, frightened out of his 
wits; and the stone quarry too near to be agreeable—that 
is what I saw, all in a few moments, between two whiffs 
of my pipe. I stopped the horse at the edge of the quarry, 
and got myself a little hurt by the shaft of the chaise. But 
that didn’t matter. The lady declared I had saved her 
life; and her husband, coming with her to our cottage the 
next day, took me into his service then and there. The lady © 
happened to be of a dark complexion; and it may amuse 
you to hear that my aunt Chance instantly pitched on 
that circumstance as a means of saving the credit of the 
cards. Here was the promise of the Queen of Spades 
performed to the very letter, by means of “ a dark woman,” 
just as my aunt had told me. “In the time to come, 
Francis, beware o’ pettin’ yer ain blinded intairpretation 
on the cairds. Ye’re ower ready, I trow, to murmur un- 
der dispensation of Proavidence that ye canna fathom— 
like the Eesraelites of auld. I'll say nae mair to ye. Mebbe 
when the mony’s powering into yer poakets, ye’ll no for- 
get yer aunt Chance, left like a sparrow on the housetop, 
wi’ a sma’ annuitee o’ thratty punds a year.” 

I remained in my situation (at the West-end of London) 
until the Spring of the New Year. About that time, my 
master’s health failed. The doctors ordered him away to 
foreign parts, and the establishment was broken up. But 
the turn in my luck still held good. When I left my place, 
I left it—thanks to the generosity of my kind master— 
with a yearly allowance granted to me, in remembrance of 
the day when I had saved my mistress’s life. For the 
future, I could go back to service or not, as I pleased; my 
little income was enough to support my mother and my- 
self. 

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My master and mistress left England toward the end of 
February. Certain matters of business to do for them de- 
tained me in London until the last day of the month. I 
was only able to leave for our village by the evening train, 
to keep my birthday with my mother as usual. It was bed- 
time when I got to the cottage; and I was sorry to find 
that she was far from well. To make matters worse, she 
had finished her bottle of medicine on the previous day, 
and had omitted to get it replenished, as the doctor had 
strictly directed. He dispensed his own medicines, and I 
offered to go and knock him up. She refused to let me 
do this; and, after giving me my supper, sent me away to 
my bed. 

I fell asleep for a little, and woke again. My mother’s 
bed-chamber was next to mine. I heard my aunt Chance’s 
heavy footsteps going to and fro in the room, and, sus- 
pecting something wrong, knocked at the door. My 
mother’s pains had returned upon her; there was a serious 
necessity for relieving her sufferings as speedily as possible, 
I put on my clothes, and ran off, with the medicine bottle 
in my hand, to the other end of the village, where the doc- 
tor lived. The church clock chimed the quarter to two on 
my birthday just as I reached his house. One ring of 
the night bell brought him to his bedroom window to 
speak to me. He told me to wait, and he would let me 
in at the surgery door. I noticed, while I was waiting, that 
the night was wonderfully fair and warm for the time of 
year. The old stone quarry where the carriage accident 
had happened was within view. The moon in the clear 
heavens lit it up almost as bright as day. 

In a minute or two the doctor let me into the surgery. 
I closed the door, noticing that he had left his room very 
lightly clad. He kindly pardoned my mother’s neglect of 
his directions, and set to work at once at compounding the 
medicine. We were both intent on the bottle; he filling 
it, and I holding the light—when we heard the surgery 
door suddenly opened from the street. 


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VIII 


Woo could possibly be up and about in our quiet vil- 
lage at the second hour of the morning? 

The person who opened the door appeared within range 
of the light of the candle. To complete our amazement, 
the person proved to be a woman! She walked up to the 
counter, and standing side by side with me, lifted her veil. 
At the moment when she showed her face, I heard the 
church clock strike two. She was a stranger to me, and 
' a stranger to the doctor. She was also, beyond all com- 
parison, the most beautiful woman I have ever seen in my 
life. 

“T saw the light under the door,” she said. “I want 
some medicine.” 

She spoke quite composedly, as if there was nothing at 
all extraordinary in her being out in the village at two in 
the morning, and following me into the surgery to ask 
for medicine! The doctor stared at her as if he suspected 
his own eyes of deceiving him. ‘Who are you?” he 
asked. “ How do you come to be wandering about at this 
time in the morning?” 

She paid no heed to his questions. She only told him 
coolly what she wanted. “I have got a bad toothache. I 
want a bottle of laudanum.” 

The doctor recovered himself when she asked for the 
laudanum. He was on his own ground, you know, when 
it came to a matter of laudanum; and he spoke to her 
smartly enough this time. 

“Oh, you have got the toothache, have you? Let me 
look at the tooth.” 

She shook her head, and laid a two-shilling piece on 
the counter. “I won’t trouble you to look at the tooth,” 
she said. “There is the money. Let me have the lauda- 
num, if you please.” 

The doctor put the two-shilling piece back again in her 
hand. “I don’t sell laudanum to strangers,” he answered. 

238 


Wilkie Collins — 
“If you are in any distress of body or mind, that is an- 
other matter. I shall be glad to help you.” 

She put the money back in her pocket. “ You can’t help 
me,” she said, as quietly as ever. “ Good morning.” 

With that, she opened the surgery door to go out again 
into the street. So far, I had not spoken a word on my 
side. I had stood with the candle in my hand (not know- 
ing I was holding it)—with my eyes fixed on her, with 
my mind fixed on her like a man bewitched. Her looks 
betrayed, even more plainly than her words, her resolution, | 
in one way or another, to destroy herself. When she 
opened the door, in my alarm at what might happen I 
found the use of my tongue. 

“Stop!” I cried out. “ Wait for me. I want to speak 
to you before you go away.” She lifted her eyes with a 
look of careless surprise and a mocking smile on her lips. 

“What can you have to say to me?” She stopped, and 
laughed to herself. “Why not?” she said. “I have got 
nothing to do, and nowhere to go.” She turned back a 
step, and nodded to me. “ You’re a strange man—I think 
T’ll humor you—I’ll wait outside.” The door of the sur- 
gery closed on her. She was gone. 

I am ashamed to own what happened next. The only 
excuse for me is that I was really and truly a man be- 
witched. I turned me round to follow her out, without 
once thinking of my mother. The doctor stopped me. 

“ Don’t forget the medicine,” he said. “ And if you will 
take my advice, don’t trouble yourself about that woman. 
Rouse up the constable. It’s his business to look after 
her—not yours.” 

I held out my hand for the medicine in silence: I was 
afraid I should fail in respect if I trusted myself to answer 
him. He must have seen, as I saw, that she wanted the 
laudanum to poison herself. He had, to my mind, taken 
a very heartless view of the matter. I just thanked him 
when he gave me the medicine—and went out. 

She was waiting for me as she had promised; walking 
slowly to and fro—a tall, graceful, solitary figure in the 


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English Mystery Stories 


bright moonbeams. They shed over her fair complexion, 
her bright golden hair, her large gray eyes, just the light 
that suited them best. She looked hardly mortal when 
she first turned to speak to me. 

“Well?” she said. “ And what do you want?” 

In spite of my pride, or my shyness, or my better sense 
—whichever it might me—all my heart went out to her 
in a moment. I caught hold of her by the hands, and 
owned what was in my thoughts, as freely as if I had 
known her for half a lifetime. 

“You mean to destroy yourself,” I said. ‘ And I mean 
to prevent you from doing it. If I follow you about all 
night, [’ll prevent you from doing it.” 

She laughed. “ You saw yourself that he wouldn’t sell 
me the laudanum. Do you really care whether I live or » 
die?”” She squeezed my hands gently as she put the 
question: her eyes searched mine with a languid, linger- 
ing look in them that ran through me like fire. My voice 
died away on my lips; I couldn’t answer her. 

She understood, without my answering. ‘“ You have 
given me a fancy for living, by speaking kindly to me,” 
she said. “ Kindness has a wonderful effect on women, 
and dogs, and other domestic animals. It is only men who 
are superior to kindness. Make your mind easy—I prom- 
ise to take as much care of myself as if I was the happiest 
woman living! Don’t let me keep you here, out of your 
bed. Which way are you going?” 

Miserable wretch that I was, I had forgotten my mother 
-—with the medicine in my hand! “I am going home,” 
I said. “ Where are you staying? At the inn?” 

She laughed her bitter laugh, and pointed to the stone 
quarry. “ There is my inn for to-night,” she said. “ When 
I got tired of walking about, I rested there.” 

We walked on together, on my way home. I took the 
liberty of asking her if she had any friends. 

“T thought I had one friend left,’ she said, “or you 
would never have met me in this place. It turns out I 
was wrong. My friend’s door was closed in my face some 

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Wilkie Collins 


hours since; my friend’s servants threatened me with the 
police. I had nowhere else to go, after trying my luck in 
your neighborhood; and nothing left but my two-shilling 
piece and these rags on my back. What respectable inn- 
keeper would take me into his house? I walked about, 
wondering how I could find my way out of the world 
without disfiguring myself, and without suffering much 
pain. You have no river in these parts. I didn’t see my 
way out of the world, till I heard you ringing at the doc- 
tor’s house. I got a glimpse at the bottles in the surgery, 
when he let you in, and I thought of the laudanum di- 
rectly. What were you doing there? Who is that medicine 
for? Your wife?” 

“T am not married!” 

She laughed again. ‘“ Not married! If Iwasa little bet- 
ter dressed there might be a chance for ME. Where do 
you live? Here?” 

We had arrived, by this time, at my mother’s door. She 
held out her hand to say good-by. Houseless and home- 
less as she was, she never asked me to give her a shelter 
for the night. It was my proposal that she should rest, 
under my roof, unknown to my mother and my aunt. Our 
kitchen was built out at the back of the cottage: she might 
remain there unseen and unheard until the household was 
astir in the morning. I led her into the kitchen, and set 
a chair for her by the dying embers of the fire. I dare 
say I was to blame—shamefully to blame, if you like. I 
only wonder what you would have done in my place. On 
your word of honor as a man, would you have let that 
beautiful creature wander back to the shelter of the stone 
quarry like a stray dog? God help the woman who is 
foolish enough to trust and love you, if you would have 
done that! 

I left her by the fire, and went to my mother’s room. 


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IX 


Ir you have ever felt the heartache, you will know what 
I suffered in secret when my mother took my hand, and 
said, “I am sorry, Francis, that your night’s rest has been 
disturbed through me.” I gave her the medicine; and I 
waited by her till the pains abated. My aunt Chance went 
back to her bed; and my mother and I were left alone. 
I noticed that her writing-desk, moved from its customary 
place, was on the bed by her side. She saw me looking 
at it. “ This is your birthday, Francis,” she said. ‘“ Have 
you anything to tell me?” I had so completely forgotten 
my Dream, that I had no notion of what was passing in 
her mind when she said those words. For a moment there. 
was a guilty fear in me that she suspected something. I 
turned away my face, and said, ‘‘ No, mother; I have noth- 
ing to tell.” She signed to me to stoop down over the 
pillow and kiss her. ‘ God bless you, my love!” she said; 
“and many happy returns of the day.” She patted my 
hand, and closed her weary eyes, and, little by little, fell 
off peaceably into sleep. 

I stole downstairs again. I think the good influence of 
my mother must have followed me down. At any rate, 
this is true: I stopped with my hand on the closed kitchen 
door, and said to myself: “ Suppose I leave the house, and 
leave the village, without seeing her or speaking to her 
more?” 

Should I really have fled from temptation in this way, if 
I had been left to myself to decide? Who can tell? As 
things were, I was not left to decide. While my doubt 
was in my mind, she heard me, and opened the kitchen 
door. My eyes and her eyes met. That ended it. 

We were together, unsuspected and undisturbed, for the 
next two hours. Time enough for her to reveal the secret 
of her wasted life. Time enough for her to take possession 
of me as her own, to do with me as she liked. It is need- 
less to dwell here on the misfortunes which had brought 


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her low; they are misfortunes too common to interest any- 
body. 

Her name was Alicia Warlock. She had been born and 
bred a lady. She had lost her station, her character, and 
her friends. Virtue shuddered at the sight of her; and 
Vice had got her for the rest of her days. Shocking 
and common, as J told you. It made no difference to me. I 
have said it already—I say it again—I was a man be- 
witched. Is there anything so very wonderful in that? 
Just remember who I was. Among the honest women in 
my own station in life, where could I have found the like 
of her? Could they walk as she walked? and look as she 
looked? When they gave me a kiss, did their lips linger 
over it as hers did? Had they her skin, her laugh, her 
foot, her hand, her touch? She never had a speck of dirt 
on her: I tell you her flesh was a perfume. When she em- 
braced me, her arms folded round me like the wings of 
angels; and her smile covered me softly with its light like 
the sun in heaven. I leave you to laugh at me, or to cry 
over me, just as your temper may incline. I am not try- 
ing to excuse myself—I am trying to explain. You are 
gentle-folks; what dazzled and maddened me, is everyday 
experience to you. Fallen or not, angel or devil, it came 
to this—she was a lady; and I was a groom. 

Before the house was astir, I got her away (by the work- 
men’s train) to a large manufacturing town in our parts. 

Here—with my savings in money to help her—she could 
get her outfit of decent clothes and her lodging among 
strangers who asked no questions so long as they were 
paid. Here—now on one pretense and now on another—I 
could visit her, and we could both plan together what our 
future lives were to be. I need not tell you that I stood 
pledged to make her my wife. A man in my station always 
marries a woman of her sort. 

Do you wonder if I was happy at this time? I should 
have been perfectly happy but for one little drawback. It 
was this: I was never quite at my ease in the presence of 
my promised wife. 


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I don’t mean that I was shy with her, or suspicious of 
her, or ashamed of her. The uneasiness I am speaking of 
was caused by a faint doubt in my mind whether I had 
not seen her somewhere, before the morning when we met 
at the doctor’s house. Over and over again, I found my- 
self wondering whether her face did not remind me of 
some other face—what other I never could tell. This 
strange feeling, this one question that could never be an- 
swered, vexed me to a degree that you would hardly credit. 
It came between us at the strangest times—oftenest, how- 
ever, at night, when the candles were lit. You have known 
what it is to try and remember a forgotten name—and 
to fail, search as you may, to find it in your mind. That 
was my case. I failed to find my lost face, just as you 
failed to find your lost name. 

In three weeks we had talked matters over, and had 
arranged how I was to make a clean breast of it at home. 
By Alicia’s advice, I was to describe her as having been 
one of my fellow servants during the time I was employed 
under my kind master and mistress in London. There 
was no fear now of my mother taking any harm from the 
shock of a great surprise. Her health had improved dur- 
ing the three weeks’ interval. On the first evening when 
she was able to take her old place at tea time, I summoned 
my courage, and told her I was going to be married. The 
poor soul flung her arms round my neck, and burst out 
crying for joy. “Oh, Francis!” she says, “I am so glad 
you will have somebody to comfort you and care for you 
when I am gone!” As for my aunt Chance, you can 
anticipate what she did, without being told. Ah, me! If 
there had really been any prophetic virtue in the cards, 
what a terrible warning they might have given us that 
night! It was arranged that I was to bring my promised 
wife to dinner at the cottage on the next day. 


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4 


I own I was proud of Alicia when I led her into our 
little parlor at the appointed time. She had never, to my 
mind, looked so beautiful as she looked that day. I never 
noticed any other woman’s dress—I noticed hers as care- 
fully as if I had been a woman myself! She wore a black 
silk gown, with plain collar and cuffs, and a modest lav- 
ender-colored bonnet, with one white rose in it placed at 
the side. My mother, dressed in her Sunday best, rose 
up, all in a flutter, to welcome her daughter-in-law that 
was to be. She walked forward a few steps, half smiling, 
half in tears—she looked Alicia full in the face—and sud- 
denly stood still. Her cheeks turned white in an instant; 
her eyes stared in horror; her hands dropped helplessly at 
her sides. She staggered back, and fell into the arms of 
my aunt, standing behind her. It was no swoon—she 
kept her senses. Her eyes turned slowly from Alicia to 
me. “Francis,” she said, “ does that woman’s face re- 
mind you of nothing?” 

Before I could answer, she pointed to her writing-desk 
on the table at the fireside. “Bring it!” she cried, 
bring it!” 

At the same moment I felt Alicia’s hand on my shoulder, 
and saw Alicia’s face red with anger—and no wonder! 

“What does this mean?” she asked. “Does your 
mother want to insult me?” 

I said a few words to quiet her; what they were I don’t 
remember—I was so confused and astonished at the time. 
Before I had done, I heard my mother behind me. 

My aunt had fetched her desk. She had opened it; she 
had taken a paper from it. Step by step, helping herself 
along by the wall, she came nearer and nearer, with the 
paper in her hand. She looked at the paper—she looked 
in Alicia’s face—she lifted the long, loose sleeve of her 
gown, and examined her hand and arm. I saw fear sud- 
denly take the place of anger in Alicia’s eyes. She shook 


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herself free of my mother’s grasp. “ Mad!” she said to 
herself, “and Francis never told me!” With those words 
she ran out of the room. 

I was hastening out after her, when my mother signed 
to me to stop. She read the words written on the paper. 
While they fell slowly, one by one, from her lips, she 
pointed toward the open door. 

“Light gray eyes, with a droop in the left eyelid. Flaxen 
hair, with a gold-yellow streak in it. White arms, with 
a down upon them. Little, lady’s hand, with a rosy-red 
look about the finger nails. The Dream Woman, Francis! 
The Dream Woman!” 

Something darkened the parlor window as those words 
were spoken. I looked sidelong at the shadow. Alicia 
Warlock had come back! She was peering in at us over 
the low window blind. There was the fatal face which had 
first looked at me in the bedroom of the lonely inn. There, 
resting on the window blind, was the lovely little hand 
which had held the murderous knife. I had seen her before 
we met in the village. The Dream Woman! The Dream 
Woman! 


ol 


I EXPECT nobody to approve of what I have next to tell 
of myself. In three weeks from the day when my mother 
had identified her with the Woman of the Dream, I took 
Alicia Warlock to church, and made her my wife. I was 
a man bewitched. Again and again I say it—I was a man 
bewitched! 

During the interval before my marriage, our little house- 
hold at the cottage was broken up. My mother and my 
aunt quarreled. My mother, believing in the Dream, en- 
treated me to break off my engagement. My aunt, believ- 
ing in the cards, urged me to marry. 

This difference of opinion produced a dispute between 
them, in the course of which my aunt Chance—quite un- 
conscious of having any superstitious feelings of her own— 

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actually set out the cards which prophesied happiness to 
me in my married life, and asked my mother how anybody 
but “a blinded heathen could be fule enough, after seeing 
those cairds, to believe in a dream!” This was, naturally, 
too much for my mother’s patience; hard words followed 
on either side; Mrs. Chance returned in dudgeon to her 
friends in Scotland. She left me a written statement of 
my future prospects, as revealed by the cards, and with it 
an address at which a post-office order would reach her. 
“The day was not that far off,’ she remarked, “when 
Francie might remember what he owed to his aunt Chance, 
maintaining her ain unbleemished widowhood on thratty 
punds a year.” 

Having refused to give her sanction to my marriage, 
my mother also refused to be present at the wedding, or 
to visit Alicia afterwards. There was no anger at the bot- 
tom of this conduct on her part. Believing as she did 
in this Dream, she was simply in mortal fear of my wife. 
I understood this, and I made allowances for her. Not a 
cross word passed between us. My one happy remem- 
brance now—though I did disobey her in the matter of 
my marriage—is this: I loved and respected my good 
mother to the last. 

As for my wife, she expressed no regret at the estrange- 
ment between her mother-in-law and herself. By common 
consent, we never spoke on that subject. We settled in 
the manufacturing town which I have already mentioned, 
and we kept a lodging-house. My kind master, at my 
request, granted me a lump sum in place of my annuity. 
This put us into a good house, decently furnished. For 
a while things went well enough. I may describe myself 
at this time of my life as a happy man. 

My misfortunes began with a return of the complaint 
with which my mother had already suffered. The doctor 
confessed, when I asked him the question, that there was 
danger to be dreaded this time. Naturally, after hearing 
this, I was a good deal away at the cottage. Naturally 
also, I left the business of looking after the house, in my 


247 


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absence, to my wife. Little by little, I found her begin- 
ning to alter toward me. While my back was turned, she 
formed acquaintances with people of the doubtful and dis- 
sipated sort. One day, I observed something in her man- 
ner which forced the suspicion on me that she had been 
drinking. Before the week was out, my suspicion was a 
certainty. From keeping company with drunkards, she 
had grown to be a drunkard herself. 

I did all a man could do to reclaim her. Quite useless! 
She had never really returned the love I felt for her: I 
had no influence; I could do nothing. My mother, hearing 
of this last worse trouble, resolved to try what her influence 
could do. Ill as she was, I found her one day dressed to 
go out. : 

“T am not long for this world, Francis,’ she said. “I 
shall not feel easy on my deathbed, unless I have done 
my best to the last to make you happy. I mean to put my 
own fears and my own feelings out of the question, and 
go with you to your wife, and try what I can do to reclaim 
her. Take me home with you, Francis. Let me do all 
TI can to help my son, before it is too late.” 

How could I disobey her? We took the railway to the 
town: it was only half an hour’s ride. By one o’clock in the 
afternoon we reached my house. It was our dinner hour, 
and Alicia was in the kitchen. I was able to take my mother 
quietly into the parlor and then to prepare my wife for the 
visit. She had drunk but little at that early hour; and, 
luckily, the devil in her was tamed for the time. 

She followed me into the parlor, and the meeting passed 
off better than I had ventured to forecast; with this one 
drawback, that my mother—though she tried hard to con- 
trol herself—shrank from looking my wife in the face when 
she spoke to her. It was a relief to me when Alicia began 
to prepare the table for dinner. 

She laid the cloth, brought in the bread tray, and cut 
some slices for us from the loaf. Then she returned to 
the kitchen. At that moment, while I was still anxiously 
watching my mother, I was startled by seeing the same 

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Wilkie Collins 
ghastly change pass over her face which had altered it in 
the morning when Alicia and she first met. Before I could 
say a word, she started up with a look of horror. 

“Take me back!—home, home again, Francis! Come 
with me, and never go back more!” 

I was afraid to ask for an explanation; I could only sign 
her to be silent, and help her quickly to the door. As we 
passed the bread tray on the table, she stopped and pointed 
to it. 

“Did you see what your wife cut your bread with?” she 
asked. 

“ No, mother; I was not noticing. What was it?” 

ew IEOOK) =" 

I did look. A new clasp knife, with a buckhorn handle, 
lay with the loaf in the bread tray. I stretched out my hand 
to possess myself of it. At the same moment, there was 
a noise in the kitchen, and my mother caught me by the 
arm. 

“The knife of the Dream! Francis, I’m faint with fear 
—take me away before she comes back!”’ 

I couldn’t speak to comfort or even to answer her. Su- 
perior as I was to superstition, the discovery of the knife 
staggered me. In silence, I helped my mother out of the 
house; and took her home. 

I held out my hand to say good-by. She tried to stop 
me. 

“Don’t go back, Francis! don’t go back!” 

“T must get the knife, mother. I must go back by the 
next train.” I held to that resolution. By the next train 
I went back. 


XII 


My wife had, of course, discovered our secret departure 
from the house. She had been drinking. She was in a 
fury of passion. The dinner in the kitchen was flung under 
the grate; the cloth was off the parlor table. Where was 
the knife? 


249 


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I was foolish enough to ask for it. She refused to give 
it to me. In the course of the dispute between us which 
followed, I discovered that there was a horrible story at- 
tached to the knife. It.had been used in a murder—years 
since—and had been so skillfully hidden that the authorities 
had been unable to produce it at the trial. By help of some 
of her disreputable friends, my wife had been able to pur- 
chase this relic of a bygone crime, Her perverted nature 
set some horrid unacknowledged value on the knife. See- 
ing there was no hope of getting it by fair means, I deter- 
mined to search for it, later in the day, in secret. The 
search was unsuccessful. Night came on, and I left the 
house to walk about the streets. You will understand what 
a broken man I was by this time, when I tell you I was 
afraid to sleep in the same room with her! 

Three weeks passed. Still she refused to give up the 
knife; and still that fear of sleeping in the same room with 
her possessed me. I walked about at night, or dozed in 
the parlor, or sat watching by my mother’s bedside. Be- 
fore the end of the first week in the new month, the worst 
misfortune of all befell me—my mother died. It wanted 
then but a short time to my birthday. She had longed to 
live till that day. I was present at her death. Her last 
words in this world were addressed to me. “Don’t go 
back, my son—don’t go back!” 

I was obliged to go back, if it was only to watch my 
wife. In the last days of my mother’s illness she had spite- 
fully added a sting to my grief by declaring she would 
assert her right to attend the funeral. In spite of all that 
I could do or say, she held to her word. On the day 
appointed for the burial she forced herself, inflamed and 
shameless with drink, into my presence, and swore she would 
walk in the funeral procession to my mother’s grave. 

This last insult—after all I had gone through already— 
was more than I could endure. It maddened me. Try to 
make allowances for a man beside himself. I struck her. 

The instant the blow was dealt, I repented it. She 
crouched down, silent, in a corner of the room, and eyed 

250 


Wilkie Collins 


me steadily. It was a look that cooled my hot blood in 
an instant. There was no time now to think of making 
atonement. I could only risk the worst, and make sure of 
her till the funeral was over. I locked her into her bed- 
room. 

When I came back, after laying my mother in the grave, 
I found her sitting by the bedside, very much altered in 
look and bearing, with a bundle on her lap. She faced 
me quietly; she spoke with a curious stillness in her voice 
—strangely and unnaturally composed in look and manner. 

“No man has ever struck me yet,” she said. “ My 
husband shall have no second opportunity. Set the door 
open, and let me go.” 

She passed me, and left the room. I saw her walk away 
up the street. Was she gone for good? 

All that night I watched and waited. No footstep came 
near the house. The next night, overcome with fatigue, I 
lay down on the bed in my clothes, with the door locked, 
the key on the table, and the candle burning. My slum- 
ber was not disturbed. The third night, the fourth, the 
fifth, the sixth, passed, and nothing happened. I lay down 
on the seventh night, still suspicious of something happen- 
ing; still in my clothes; still with the door locked, the key 
on the table, and the candle burning. 

My rest was disturbed. I awoke twice, without any 
sensation of uneasiness. The third time, that horrid shiv- 
ering of the night at the lonely inn, that awful sinking pain 
at the heart, came back again, and roused me in an instant. 
My eyes turned to the left-hand side of the bed. And 
there stood, looking at me— 

The Dream Woman again? No! My wife. The liv- 
ing woman, with the face of the Dream—in the attitude 
of the Dream—the fair arm up; the knife clasped in the 
delicate white hand. 

I sprang upon her on the instant; but not quickly enough 
to stop her from hiding the knife. Without a word from 
me, without a cry from her, I pinioned her in a chair. With 
one hand I felt up her sleeve; and there, where the Dream 

251 


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Woman had hidden the knife, my wife had hidden it—the 
knife with the buckhorn handle, that looked like new. 

What I felt when I made that discovery I could not 
realize at the time, and I can’t describe now. I took one 
steady look at her with the knife in my hand. “ You meant 
to kill me?” I said. 

“Yes,” she answered; “I meant to kill you.” She 
crossed her arms over her bosom, and stared me coolly in 
the face. “TI shall do it yet,” she said. ‘‘ With that knife.” 

I don’t know what possessed me—I swear to you I am 
no coward; and yet I acted like a coward. The horrors 
got hold of me. I couldn’t look at her—I couldn’t speak 
to her. I left her (with the knife in my hand), and went 
out into the night. | 

There was a bleak wind abroad, and the smell of rain 
was in the air. The church clocks chimed the quarter as 
I walked beyond the last house in the town. I asked the 
first policeman I met what hour that was, of which the 
quarter past had just struck. 

The man looked at his watch, and answered, ‘‘ Two 
o'clock.” Two in the morning. What day of the month 
was this day that had just begun? I reckoned it up from 
the date of my mother’s funeral. The horrid parallel be- 
tween the dream and the reality was complete—it was my 
birthday! 

Had I escaped the mortal peril which the dream fore- 
told? or had I only received a second warning? As that 
doubt crossed my mind I stopped on my way out of the 
town. The air had revived me—I felt in some degree 
like my own self again. After a little thinking, I began 
to see plainly the mistake I had made in leaving my wife 
free to go where she liked and to do as she pleased. 

I turned instantly, and made my way back to the house. 
It was still dark. I had left the candle burning in the 
bedchamber. When I looked up to the window of the room 
now, there was no light in it. I advanced to the house 
door. On going away, I remembered to have closed it; on 
trying it now, I found it open. 

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I waited outside, never losing sight of the house till 
daylight. Then I ventured indoors—listened, and heard 
nothing—looked into the kitchen, scullery, parlor, and 
found nothing—went up at last into the bedroom. It was 
empty. 

A picklock lay on the floor, which told me how she had 
gained entrance in the night. And that was the one trace 
I could find of the Dream Woman. 


XIII 


I WAITED in the house till the town was astir for the 
day, and then I went to consult a lawyer. In the con- 
fused state of my mind at the time, I had one clear notion 
of what I meant to do: I was determined to sell my house 
and leave the neighborhood. There were obstacles in the 
way which I had not counted on. I was told I had credit- 
ors to satisfy before I could leave—I, who had given my 
wife the money to pay my bills regularly every week! In- 
quiry showed that she had embezzled every farthing of the 
money I had intrusted to her. I had no choice but to pay 
over again. 

Placed in this awkward position, my first duty was to 
set things right, with the help of my lawyer. During my 
forced sojourn in the town I did two foolish things. And, 
as a consequence that followed, I heard once more, and 
heard for the last time, of my wife. 

In the first place, having got possession of the knife, I 
was rash enough to keep it in my pocket. In the second 
place, having something of importance to say to my law- 
yer, at a late hour of the evening, I went to his house after 
dark—alone and on foot. I got there safely enough. Re- 
turning, I was seized on from behind by two men, dragged 
down a passage and robbed—not only of the little money 
I had about me, but also of the knife. It was the lawyer’s 
opinion (as it was mine) that the thieves were among the 
disreputable acquaintances formed by my wife, and that they 


253 


English Mystery Stories 


had attacked me at her instigation. To confirm this viex 
I received a letter the next day, without date or address, 
written in Alicia’s hand. The first line informed me that 
the knife was back again in her possession. The second line 
reminded me of the day when I struck her. The third line 
warned me that she would wash out the stain of that blow 
in my blood, and repeated the words, “I shall do it with 
the knife!” 

These things happened a year ago. The law laid hanas 
on the men who had robbed me; but from that time to 
this, the law has failed completely to find a trace of my 
wife. 

My story is told. When I had paid the creditors and 
paid the legal expenses, I had barely five pounds left out. 
of the sale of my house; and I had the world to begin 
over again. Some months since—drifting here and there 
—I found my way to Underbridge. The landlord of the 
inn had known something of my father’s family in times 
past. He gave me (all he had to give) my food, and 
shelter in the yard. Except on market days, there is noth- 
ing to do. In the coming winter the inn is to be shut 
up, and I shall have to shift for myself. My old mas- 
ter would help me if I applied to him—but I don’t like 
to apply: he has done more for me already than I deserve. 
Besides, in another year who knows but my troubles may 
all be at an end? Next winter will bring me nigh to my 
next birthday, and my next birthday may be the day of 
my death. Yes! it’s true I sat up all last night; and I 
heard two in the morning strike: and nothing happened. 
Still, allowing for that, the time to come is a time I don’t 
trust. My wife has got the knife—my wife is looking for 
me. I am above superstition, mind! I don’t say I believe 
in dreams; I only say, Alicia Warlock is looking for me. 
It is possible I may be wrong. It is possible I may be right. 
Who can tell? 


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Wilkie Collins 


THE THIRD NARRATIVE 
THE STORY CONTINUED BY PERCY FAIRBANK 


XIV 


WE took leave of Francis Raven at the door of Farleigh 
Hall, with the understanding that he might expect to hear 
from us again. 

The same night Mrs. Fairbank and I had a discussion 
in the sanctuary of our own room. The topic was “ The 
Hostler’s Story”; and the question in dispute between us 
turned on the measure of charitable duty that we owed to 
the hostler himself. 

The view I took of the man’s narrative was of the purely 
matter-of-fact kind. Francis Raven had, in my opinion, 
brooded over the misty connection between his strange 
dream and his vile wife, until his mind was in a state of 
partial delusion on that subject. I was quite willing to 
help him with a trifle of money, and to recommend him to 
the kindness of my lawyer, if he was really in any danger 
and wanted advice. There my idea of my duty toward this 
afflicted person began and ended. 

Confronted with this sensible view of the matter, Mrs. 
Fairbank’s romantic temperament rushed, as usual, into ex- 
tremes. “I should no more think of losing sight of Francis 
Raven when his next birthday comes round,” says my wife, 
“than I should think of laying down a good story with the 
last chapters unread. I am positively determined, Percy, to 
take him back with us when we return to France, in the ca- 
pacity of groom. What does one man more or less among 
the horses matter to people as rich as we are?” In this 
strain the partner of my joys and sorrows ran on, perfectly 
impenetrable to everything that I could say on the side of 
common sense. Need I tell my married brethren how it 
ended? Of course I allowed my wife to irritate me, and 
spoke to her sharply. 


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English Mystery Stories 


Of course my wife turned her face away indignantly on 
the conjugal pillow, and burst into tears. Of course upon 
that, “ Mr.” made his excuses, and ‘“ Mrs.” had her own 
way. 

Before the week was out we rode over to Underbridge, 
and duly offered to Francis Raven a place in our service 
as supernumerary groom. 

At first the poor fellow seemed hardly able to realize 
his own extraordinary good fortune. Recovering himself, 
he expressed his gratitude modestly and becomingly. Mrs. 
Fairbank’s ready sympathies overflowed, as usual, at her 
lips. She talked to him about our home in France, as if 
the worn, gray-headed hostler had been a child. “ Such 
a dear old house, Francis; and such pretty gardens! Sta- | 
bles! Stables ten times as big as your stables here—quite 
a choice of rooms for you. You must learn the name of 
our house—Maison Rouge. Our nearest town is Metz. We 
are within a walk of the beautiful River Moselle. And when 
we want a change we have only to take the railway to the 
frontier, and find ourselves in Germany.” 

Listening, so far, with a very bewildered face, Francis 
started and changed color when my wife reached the end 
of her last sentence. “ Germany?” he repeated. 

“Yes. Does Germany remind you of anything?” 

The hostler’s eyes looked down sadly on the ground. 
“Germany reminds me of my wife,” he replied. 

“Indeed! How?” 

“She once told me she had lived in Germany—long 
before I knew her—in the time when she was a young 
girl.” 

“Was she living with relations or friends?” 

“ She was living as governess in a foreign family.” 

“In what part of Germany?” 

“T don’t remember, ma’am. I doubt if she told me.” 

“Did she tell you the name of the family?” 

“Yes, ma’am. It was a foreign name, and it has slipped 
my memory long since. The head of the family was a wine 
grower in a large way of business—I remember that.” 

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“Did you hear what sort of wine he grew? There are 
wine growers in our neighborhood. Was it Moselle wine?” 

“ T couldn’t say, ma’am, I doubt if I ever heard.” 

There the conversation dropped. We engaged to com- 
municate with Francis Raven before we left England, and 
took our leave. I had made arrangements to pay our round 
of visits to English friends, and to return to Maison Rouge 
in the summer. On the eve of departure, certain difficul- 
ties in connection with the management of some landed 
property of mine in Ireland obliged us to alter our plans. 
Instead of getting back to our house in France in the Sum- 
mer, we only returned a week or two before Christmas. 
Francis Raven accompanied us, and was duly established, 
in the nominal capacity of stable keeper, among the servants 
at Maison Rouge. 

Before long, some of the objections to taking him into 
our employment, which I had foreseen and had vainly men- 
tioned to my wife, forced themselves on our attention in 
no very agreeable form. Francis Raven failed (as I had 
feared he would) to get on smoothly with his fellow-serv- 
ants. They were all French; and not one of them under- 
stood English. Francis, on his side, was equally ignorant 
of French. His reserved manners, his melancholy tempera- 
ment, his solitary ways—all told against him. Our servants 
called him “the English Bear.” He grew widely known 
in the neighborhood under his nickname. Quarrels took 
place, ending once or twice in blows. It became plain, even 
to Mrs. Fairbank herself, that some wise change must be 
made. While we were still considering what the change 
was to be, the unfortunate hostler was thrown on our hands 
for some time to come by an accident in the stables. Still 
pursued by his proverbial ill-luck, the poor wretch’s leg 
was broken by a kick from a horse. 

He was attended to by our own surgeon, in his comfort- 
able bedroom at the stables. As the date of his birthday 
drew near, he was still confined to his bed. 

Physically speaking, he was doing very well. Morally 
speaking, the surgeon was not satisfied. Francis Raven was 


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suffering under some mysterious mental disturbance, which 
interfered seriously with his rest at night. Hearing this, I 
thought it my duty to tell the medical attendant what was 
preying on the patient’s mind. As a practical man, he 
shared my opinion that the hostler was in a state of delu- 
sion on the subject of his Wife and his Dream. “ Curable 
delusion, in my opinion,” the surgeon added, “if the ex- 
periment could be fairly tried.” 

“How can it be tried?” I asked. Instead of replying, 
the surgeon put a question to me, on his side. 

“Do you happen to know,” he said, “that this year is 
Leap Year?” 

“Mrs. Fairbank reminded me of it yesterday,” I an- 
swered. “ Otherwise I might not have known it.” 

“Do you think Francis Raven knows that this year is 
Leap Year?” 

(I began to see dimly what my friend was driving at.) 

“It depends,” I answered, “on whether he has got an 
English almanac. Suppose he has not got the almanac— 
what then?” 

“In that case,” pursued the surgeon, “ Francis Raven is 
innocent of all suspicion that there is a twenty-ninth day 
in February this year. As a necessary consequence—what 
will he do? He will anticipate the appearance of the 
Woman with the Knife, at two in the morning of the 
twenty-ninth of February, instead of the first of March. 
Let him suffer all his superstitious terrors on the wrong 
day. Leave him, on the day that is really his birthday, to 
pass a perfectly quiet night, and to be as sound asleep as 
other people at two in the morning. And then, when he 
wakes comfortably in time for his breakfast, shame him 
out of his delusion by telling him the truth.” 

I agreed to try the experiment. Leaving the surgeon to 
caution Mrs, Fairbank on the subject of Leap Year, i went 
to the stables to see Mr. Raven. 


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XV 


Tue poor fellow was full of forebodings of the fate in 
store for him on the ominous first of March. He eagerly 
entreated me to order one of the men servants to sit up 
with him on the birthday morning. In granting his re- 
quest, I asked him to tell me on which day of the week 
his birthday fell. He reckoned the days on his fingers; 
and proved his innocence of all suspicion that it was Leap 
Year, by fixing on the twenty-ninth of February, in the 
full persuasion that it was the first of March. Pledged to 
try the surgeon’s experiment, I left his error uncorrected, 
of course. Inso doing, I took my first step blindfold toward 
the last act in the drama of the Hostler’s Dream. 

The next day brought with it a little domestic difficulty, 
which indirectly and strangely associated itself with the com- 
ing end. 

My wife received a letter, inviting us to assist in cele- 
brating the “Silver Wedding” of two worthy German 
neighbors of ours—Mr. and Mrs. Beldheimer. Mr. Beld- 
heimer was a large wine grower on the banks of the Mo- 
selle. His house was situated on the frontier line of France 
and Germany; and the distance from our house was suf- 
ficiently considerable to make it necessary for us to sleep 
under our host’s roof. Under these circumstances, if we 
accepted the invitation, a comparison of dates showed that 
we should be away from home on the morning of the first 
of March. Mrs. Fairbank—holding to her absurd resolu- 
tion to see with her own eyes what might, or might not, 
happen to Francis Raven on his birthday—flatly declined 
to leave Maison Rouge. “ It’s easy to send an excuse,” she 
said, in her off-hand manner. 

I failed, for my part, to see any easy way out of the dif- 
ficulty. The celebration of a “ Silver Wedding ” in Ger- 
many is the celebration of twenty-five years of happy mar- 
ried life; and the host’s claim upon the consideration of his 
friends on such an occasion is something in the nature of a 


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royal “command.” After considerable discussion, finding 
my wife’s obstinacy invincible, and feeling that the absence 
of both of us from the festival would certainly offend our 
friends, I left Mrs. Fairbank to make her excuses for her- 
self, and directed her to accept the invitation so far as I 
was concerned. In so doing, I took my second step, blind- 
fold, toward the last act in the drama of the Hostler’s 
Dream. 

A week elapsed; the last days of February were at hand. 
Another domestic difficulty happened; and, again, this event 
also proved to be strangely associated with the coming 
end. 

My head groom at the stables was one Joseph Rigobert. 
He was an ill-conditioned fellow, inordinately vain of his 
personal appearance, and by no means scrupulous in his 
conduct with women. His one virtue consisted of his fond- 
ness for horses, and in the care he took of the animals 
under his charge. In a word, he was too good a groom to 
be easily replaced, or he would have quitted my service long 
since. On the occasion of which I am now writing, he was 
reported to me by my steward as growing idle and disor- 
derly in his habits. The principal offense alleged against 
him was, that he had been seen that day in the city of 
Metz, in the company of a woman (supposed to be an 
Englishwoman), whom he was entertaining at a tavern, 
when he ouglit to have been on his way back to Maison 
Rouge. The man’s defense was that “the lady” (as he 
called her) was an English stranger, unacquainted with the 
ways of the place, and that he had only shown her where 
she could obtain some refreshments at her own request. I 
administered the necessary reprimand, without troubling 
myself to inquire further into the matter. In failing to do 
this, I took my third step, blindfold, toward the last act in 
the drama of the Hostler’s Dream. 

On the evening of the twenty-eighth, I informed the 
servants at the stables that one of them must watch through 
the night by the Englishman’s bedside. Joseph Rigobert 
immediately volunteered for the duty—as a means, no 

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doubt, of winning his way back to my favor. I accepted his 
proposal. 

That day the surgeon dined with us. Toward midnight 
he and I left the smoking room, and repaired to Francis 
Raven’s bedside. Rigobert was at his post, with no very 
agreeable expression on his face. The Frenchman and the 
Englishman had evidently not got on well together so far. 
Francis Raven lay helpless on his bed, waiting silently for 
two in the morning and the Dream Woman. 

“T have come, Francis, to bid you good night,” I said, 
cheerfully. “To-morrow morning I shall look in at break- 
fast time, before I leave home on a journey.” 

“Thank you for all your kindness, sir. You will not see 
me alive to-morrow morning. She will find me this time. 
Mark my words—she will find me this time.” 

“My good fellow! she couldn’t find you in England. 
How in the world is she to find you in France?” 

“It’s borne in on my mind, sir, that she will find me 
here. At two in the morning on my birthday I shall see 
her again, and see her for the last time.” 

“Do you mean that she will kill you?” 

“T mean that, sir, she will kill me—with the knife.” 

“And with Rigobert in the room to protect you?” 

“Tam adoomed man. Fifty Rigoberts couldn’t protect 
me.” 

“And you wanted somebody to sit up with you?” 

“Mere weakness, sir. I don’t like to be left alone on 
my deathbed.” 

I looked at the surgeon. If he had encouraged me, I 
should certainly, out of sheer compassion, have confessed 
to Francis Raven the trick that we were playing him. The 
surgeon held to his experiment; the surgeon’s face plainly 
said—* No.” 

The next day (the twenty-ninth of February) was the 
day of the “ Silver Wedding.” The first thing in the morn- 
ing, I went to Francis Raven’s room. Rigobert 1 met me 
at the door. 

“How has he passed the night?” I asked. 

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“Saying his prayers, and looking for ghosts,” Rigobert 
answered. “A lunatic asylum is the only proper place for 
him.” 

I approached the bedside. “ Well, Francis, here you are, 
safe and sound, in spite of what you said to me last night.” 
His eyes rested on mine with a vacant, wondering look. 

“T don’t understand it,” he said. 

“Did you see anything of your wife when the clock 
struck two?” 

aN G OSiT. 

“Did anything happen?” 

“ Nothing happened, sir.” 

“ Doesn’t this satisfy you that you were wrong?” 

His eyes still kept their vacant, wondering look. He 
only repeated the words he had spoken already: “I don’t 
understand it.” 

I made a last attempt to cheer him. ‘“‘ Come, come, 
Francis! keep a good heart. You will be out of bed ina 
fortnight.” 

He shook his head on the pillow. ‘ There’s something 
wrong,” he said. “I don’t expect you to believe me, 
sir. I only say there’s something wrong—and time will 
show it.” 

I left the room. Half an hour later I started for Mr. 
Beldheimer’s house; leaving the arrangements for the 
morning of the first of March in the hands of the doctor 
and my wife. 


XVI 


THE one thing which principally struck me when I joined 
the guests at the “Silver Wedding” is also the one thing 
which it is necessary to mention here. On this joyful 
occasion a noticeable lady present was out of spirits. That 
lady was no other than the heroine of the festival, the mis- 
tress of the house! 

In the course of the evening I spoke to Mr. Beldheimer’s 
eldest son on the subject of his mother, As an old friend 

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of the family, I had a claim on his confidence which the 
young man willingly recognized. 

“ We have had a very disagreeable matter to deal with,” 
he said; “and my mother has not recovered the painful 
impression left on her mind. Many years since, when my 
sisters were children, we had an English governess in the 
house. She left us, as we then understood, to be married. 
We heard no more of her until a week or ten days since, 
when my mother received a letter, in which our ex-gov- 
erness described herself as being in a condition of great 
poverty and distress. After much hesitation she had ven- 
tured—at the suggestion of a lady who had been kind to 
her—to write to her former employers, and to appeal to 
their remembrance of old times. You know my mother: 
she is not only the most kind-hearted, but the most inno- 
cent of women—it is impossible to persuade her of the 
wickedness that there is in the world. She replied by re- 
turn of post, inviting the governess to come here and see 
her, and inclosing the money for her traveling expenses. 
When my father came home, and heard what had been 
done, he wrote at once to his agent in London to make 
inquiries, inclosing the address on the governess’ letter. 
Before he could receive the agent’s reply the governess 
arrived. She produced the worst possible impression on 
his mind. The agent’s letter, arriving a few days later, con- 
firmed his suspicions. Since we had lost sight of her, the 
woman had led a most disreputable life. My father spoke 
to her privately: he offered—on condition of her leaving 
the house—a sum of money to take her back to England. 
If she refused, the alternative would be an appeal to the 
authorities and a public scandal. She accepted the money, 
and left the house. On her way back to England she ap- 
pears to have stopped at Metz. You will understand what 
sort of woman she is when I tell you that she was seen 
the other day in a tavern with your handsome groom, 
Joseph Rigobert.” 

While my informant was relating these circumstances, 
my memory was at work. I recalled what Francis Raven 

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had vaguely told us of his wife’s experience in former days 
as governess in a German family. A suspicion of the truth 
suddenly flashed across my mind. “ What was the woman’s 
name?” I asked. 

Mr. Beldheimer’s son answered: “ Alicia Warlock.” 

I had but one idea when I heard that reply—to get back 
to my house without a moment’s needless delay. It was 
then ten o’clock at night—the last train to Metz had left 
long since. I arranged with my young friend—after duly 
informing him of the circumstances—that I should go by 
the first train in the morning, instead of staying to break- 
fast with the other guests who slept in the house. 

At intervals during the night I wondered uneasily how 
things were going on at Maison Rouge. Again and again 
the same question occurred to me, on my journey home in 
the early morning—the morning of the first of March. As 
the event proved, but one person in my house knew what 
really happened at the stables on Francis Raven’s birthday. 
Let Joseph Rigobert take my place as narrator, and tell 
the story of the end to You—as he told it, in times past, 
to his lawyer and to Me. 


FOURTH (AND LAST) NARRATIVE 


STATEMENT OF JOSEPH RIGOBERT: ADDRESSED TO THE ADVO- 
CATE WHO DEFENDED HIM AT HIS TRIAL 


RESPECTED Sir,—On the twenty-seventh of February I 
was sent, on business connected with the stables at Maison 
Rouge, to the city of Metz. On the public promenade I 
met a magnificent woman. Complexion, blond. Nation- 
ality, English. We mutually admired each other; we fell 
into conversation. (She spoke French perfectly—with the 
English accent.) I offered refreshment; my proposal was 
accepted. We had a long and interesting interview—we 
discovered that we were made for each other. So far, Who 
is to blame? 

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Is it my fault that I am a handsome man—universally 
agreeable as such to the fair sex? Is it a criminal offense 
to be accessible to the amiable weakness of love? I ask 
again, Who is to blame? Clearly, nature. Not the beauti- 
ful lady—not my humble self. 

To resume. The most hard-hearted person living will 
understand that two beings made for each other could not 
possibly part without an appointment to meet again. 

I made arrangements for the accommodation of the lady ~ 
in the village near Maison Rouge. She consented to honor 
me with her company at supper, in my apartment at the 
stables, on the night of the twenty-ninth. The time fixed 
on was the time when the other servants were accustomed 
to retire—eleven o’clock. 

Among the grooms attached to the stables was an Eng- 
lishman, laid up with a broken leg. His name was Francis. 
His manners were repulsive; he was ignorant of the French 
language. In the kitchen he went by the nickname of the 
“English Bear.” Strange to say, he was a great favorite 
with my master and my mistress. They even humored 
certain superstitious terrors to which this repulsive person 
was subject—terrors into the nature of which I, as an ad- 
vanced freethinker, never thought it worth my while to 
inquire. 

On the evening of the twenty-eighth the Englishman, 
being a prey to the terrors which I have mentioned, re- 
quested that one of his fellow-servants might sit up with 
him for that night only. The wish that he expressed was 
backed by Mr. Fairbank’s authority. Having already in- 
curred my master’s displeasure —in what way, a proper 
sense of my own dignity forbids me to relate—I volun- 
teered to watch by the bedside of the English Bear. My 
object was to satisfy Mr. Fairbank that I bore no malice, 
on my side, after what had occurred between us. The 
wretched Englishman passed a night of delirium. Not un- 
derstanding his barbarous language, I could only gather 
from his gesture that he was in deadly fear of some fan- 
cied apparition at his bedside. From time to time, when 

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this madman disturbed my slumbers, I quieted him by 
swearing at him. This is the shortest and best way of deal- 
ing with persons in his condition. 

On the morning of the twenty-ninth, Mr. Fairbank left 
us on a journey. Later in the day, to my unspeakable dis- 
gust, I found that I had not done with the Englishman yet. 
In Mr. Fairbank’s absence, Mrs. Fairbank took an incom- 
prehensible interest in the question of my delirious fellow- 
servant’s repose at night. Again, one or the other of us 
was to watch at his bedside, and report it, if anything hap- 
pened. Expecting my fair friend to supper, it was neces- 
sary to make sure that the other servants at the stables 
would be safe in their beds that night. Accordingly, I 
volunteered once more to be the man who kept watch. . 
Mrs. Fairbank complimented me on my humanity. I pos- 
sess great command over my feelings. I accepted the 
compliment without a blush. 

Twice, after nightfall, my mistress and the doctor (the 
last staying in the house in Mr. Fairbank’s absence) came 
to make inquiries. Once before the arrival of my fair friend 
—and once after. On the second occasion (my apartment 
being next door to the Englishman’s) I was obliged to hide 
my charming guest in the harness room. She consented, 
with angelic resignation, to immolate her dignity to the 
servile necessities of my position. A more amiable woman 
(so far) I never met with! 

After the second visit I was left free. It was then close 
on midnight. Up to that time there was nothing in the 
behavior of the mad Englishman to reward Mrs. Fairbank 
and the doctor for presenting themselves at his bedside. 
He lay half awake, half asleep, with an odd wondering kind 
of look in his face. My mistress at parting warned me to 
be particularly watchful of him toward two in the morning. 
The doctor (in case anything happened) left me a large 
hand bell to ring, which could easily be heard at the house. 

Restored to the society of my fair friend, I spread the 
supper table. A paté, a sausage, and a few bottles of gen- 
erous Moselle wine, composed our simple meal. When 


266 


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persons adore each other, the intoxicating illusion of Love 
transforms the simplest meal into a banquet. With im- 
measurable capacities for enjoyment, we sat down to table. 
At the very moment when I placed my fascinating com- 
panion in a chair, the infamous Englishman in the next 
room took that occasion, of all others, to become restless 
and noisy once more. He struck with his stick on the 
floor; he cried out, in a delirious access of terror, “ Rigo- 
bert! Rigobert!” 

The sound of that lamentable voice, suddenly assailing 
our ears, terrified my fair friend. She lost all her charm- 
ing color in an instant. ‘“ Good heavens!” she exclaimed. 
“Who is that in the next room?” 

“A mad Englishman.” 

“ An Englishman?” 

“Compose yourself, my angel. I will quiet him.” 

The lamentable voice called out on me again, “ Rigo- 
bert! Rigobert!” 

My fair friend caught me by the arm. “ Who is he?” 
she cried. ‘‘ What is his name?” 

Something in her face struck me as she put that question. 
A spasm of jealousy shook me to the soul. “ You know 
him?” I said. 

“ His name!” she vehemently repeated; “ his name!” 

“Francis,” I answered. 

“ Francis—what? ” 

I shrugged my shoulders. I could neither remember 
nor pronounce the barbarous English surname. I could 
only tell her it began with an “ R.” 

She dropped back into the chair. Was she going to 
faint? No: she recovered, and more than recovered, her 
lost color. Her eyes flashed superbly. What did it mean? 
Profoundly as I understand women in general, I was puz- 
zled by this woman! 

“You know him?” I repeated. 

She laughed at me. ‘‘ What nonsense! How should I 
know him? Go and quiet the wretch.” 

My looking-glass was near. One glance at it satisfied 

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me that no woman in her senses could prefer the English- 
man to Me. I recovered my self-respect. I hastened to the 
Englishman’s bedside. 

The moment I appeared he pointed eagerly toward my 
room. He overwhelmed me with a torrent of words in 
his own language. I made out, from his gestures and his 
looks, that he had, in some incomprehensible manner, dis- 
covered the presence of my guest; and, stranger still, that 
he was scared by the idea of a person in my room. I en- 
deavored to compose him on the system which I have al- 
ready mentioned—that is to say, I swore at him in my lan- 
guage. The result not proving satisfactory, I own I shook 
my fist in his face, and left the bedchamber. 

Returning to my fair friend, I found her walking back- 
ward and forward in a state of excitement wonderful to 
behold. She had not waited for me to fill her glass—she 
had begun the generous Moselle in my absence. I pre- 
vailed on her with difficulty to place herself at the table. 
Nothing would induce her to eat. ‘“‘ My appetite is gone,” 
she said. ‘“ Give me wine.” 

The generous Moselle deserves its name—delicate on the 
palate, with prodigious “body.” The strength of this fine 
wine produced no stupefying effect on my remarkable 
guest. It appeared to strengthen and exhilarate her—noth- 
ing more. She always spoke in the same low tone, and 
always, turn the conversation as I might, brought it back 
with the same dexterity to the subject of the Englishman 
in the next room. In any other woman this persistency 
would have offended me. My lovely guest was irresistible ; 
I answered her questions with the docility of a child. She 
possessed all the amusing eccentricity of her nation. When 
I told her of the accident which confined the Englishman 
to his bed, she sprang to her feet. An extraordinary smile 
irradiated her countenance. She said, “Show me the horse 
who broke the Englishman’s leg! I must see that horse!” 
I took her to the stables. She kissed the horse—on my 
word of honor, she kissed the horse! That struck me. I 
said. “ You do know the man; and he has wronged you in 


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some way.” No! she would not admit it, even then. “I 
kiss all beautiful animals,” she said. ‘“ Haven’t I kissed 
you?” With that charming explanation of her conduct, 
she ran back up the stairs. I only remained behind to lock 
the stable door again. When I rejoined her, I made a 
startling discovery. I caught her coming out of the Eng- 
lishman’s room. 

“T was just going downstairs again to call you,” she said. 
“The man in there is getting noisy once more.” 

The mad Englishman’s voice assailed our ears once 
again. “ Rigobert! Rigobert!”’ 

He was a frightful object to look at when I saw him this 
time. His eyes were staring wildly; the perspiration was 
pouring over his face. In a panic of terror he clasped his 
hands; he pointed up to heaven. By every sign and gesture 
that a man can make, he entreated me not to leave him 
again. I really could not help smiling. The idea of my 
staying with him, and leaving my fair friend by herself in the 
next room! 

I turned to the door. When the mad wretch saw me 
leaving him he burst out into a screech of despair—so shrill 
that I feared it might awaken the sleeping servants. 

My presence of mind in emergencies is proverbial among 
those who know me. I tore open the cupboard in which 
he kept his linen—seized a handful of his handkerchiefs— 
gagged him with one of them, and secured his hands with 
the others. There was now no danger of his alarming the 
servants. After tying the last knot, I looked up. 

The door between the Englishman’s room and mine was 
open. My fair friend was standing on the threshold— 
watching him as he lay helpless on the bed; watching me 
as I tied the last knot. 

“ What are you doing there?” I asked. “ Why did you 
open the door?” 

She stepped up to me, and whispered her answer in my 
ear, with her eyes all the time upon the man on the bed: 

“T heard him scream.” 

eMWVelbe? 


b 


269 


English Mystery Stories 


“T thought you had killed him.” 

I drew back from her in horror. The suspicion of me 
which her words implied was sufficiently detestable in itself. 
But her manner when she uttered the words was more re- 
volting still. It so powerfully affected me that I started 
back from that beautiful creature as I might have recoiled 
from a reptile crawling over my flesh. 

Before I had recovered myself sufficiently to reply, my 
nerves were assailed by another shock. I suddenly heard 
my mistress’s voice calling to me from the stable yard. 

There was no time to think—there was only time to act. 
The one thing needed was to keep Mrs. Fairbank from 
ascending the stairs, and discovering—not my lady guest 
only—but the Englishman also, gagged and bound on his 
bed. I instantly hurried to the yard. As I ran down the 
stairs I heard the stable clock strike the quarter to two in 
the morning. 

My mistress was eager and agitated. The doctor (in at- 
tendance on her) was smiling to himself, like a man amused 
at his own thoughts, 

“Ts Francis awake or asleep?” Mrs. Fairbank inquired. 

“ He has been a little restless, madam. But he is now 
quiet again. If he is not disturbed” (I added those words 
to prevent her from ascending the stairs), “he will soon 
fall off into a quiet sleep.” 

“Has nothing happened since I was here last?” 

“ Nothing, madam.” 

The doctor lifted his eyebrows with a comical look of 
distress. ‘“ Alas, alas, Mrs. Fairbank!” he said. ‘“‘ Nothing 
has happened! The days of romance are over!” 

“It is not two o’clock yet,” my mistress answered, a little 
irritably. 

The smell of the stables was strong on the morning air. 
She put her handkerchief to her nose and led the way out 
of the yard by the north entrance—the entrance communi- 
cating with the gardens and the house. I was ordered to 
follow her, along with the doctor. Once out of the smell 
of the stables she began to question me again. She was 

270 


Wilkie Collins 


unwilling to believe that nothing had occurred in her ab- 
sence. I invented the best answers I could think of on the 
spur of the moment; and the doctor stood by laughing. 
So the minutes passed till the clock struck two. Upon that, 
Mrs. Fairbank announced her intention of personally visit- 
ing the Englishman in his room. To my great relief, the 
doctor interfered to stop her from doing this. 

“You have heard that Francis is just falling asleep,” he 
said. “If you enter his room you may disturb him. It is 
essential to the success of my experiment that he should 
have a good night’s rest, and that he should own it himself, 
before I tell him the truth. I must request, madam, that 
you will not disturb the man. Rigobert will ring the alarm 
bell if anything happens.” 

My mistress was unwilling to yield. For the next five 
minutes, at least, there was a warm discussion between the 
two. In the end Mrs. Fairbank was obliged to give way— 
for the time. “In half an hour,” she said, “ Francis will 
either be sound asleep, or awake again. In half an hour 
I shall come back.” She took the doctor’s arm. They re- 
turned together to the house. 

Left by myself, with half an hour before me, I resolved 
to take the Englishwoman back to the village—then, return- 
ing to the stables, to remove the gag and the bindings from 
Francis, and to let him screech to his heart’s content. What 
would his alarming the whole establishment matter to me 
after I had got rid of the compromising presence of my, 
guest? 

Returning to the yard I heard a sound like the creaking 
of an open door on its hinges. The gate of the north en- 
trance I had just closed with my own hand. I went round 
to the west entrance, at the back of the stables. It opened 
on a field crossed by two footpaths in Mr. Fairbank’s 
grounds. The nearest footpath led to the village. The 
other led to the highroad and the river. 

Arriving at the west entrance I found the door open— 
swinging to and fro slowly in the fresh morning breeze. I 
had myself locked and bolted that door after admitting my 

271 


English Mystery Stories 


fair friend at eleven o’clock:, A vague dread of something 
wrong stole its way into my mind. I hurried back to the 
stables. 

I looked into my own room. It was empty. I went to 
the harness room. Not a sign of the woman was there. I 
returned to my room, and approached the door of the Eng- 
lishman’s bedchamber. Was it possible that she had re- 
mained there during my absence? An unaccountable 
reluctance to open the door made me hesitate, with my 
hand on the lock. I listened. There was not a sound in- 
side. I called softly. There was no answer. I drew back 
a step, still hesitating. I noticed something dark moving 
slowly in the crevice between the bottom of the door and 
the boarded floor. Snatching up the candle from the table, 
I held it low, and looked. The dark, slowly moving object 
was a stream of blood! 

That horrid sight roused me. I opened the door. The 
Englishman lay on his bed—alone in the room. He was 
stabbed in two places—in the throat and in the heart. The 
weapon was left in the second wound. It was a knife of 
English manufacture, with a handle of buckhorn as good 
as new. 

I instantly gave the alarm. Witnesses can speak to what 
followed. It is monstrous to suppose that I am guilty of 
the murder. I admit that I am capable of committing fol- 
lies: but I shrink from the bare idea of a crime. Besides, 
I had no motive for killing the man. The woman mur- 
dered him in my absence. The woman escaped by the west 
entrance while I was talking to my mistress. I have no 
more to say. I swear to you what I have here written is 
a true statement of all that happened on the morning of 
the first of March. 

Accept, sir, the assurance of my sentiments of profound 
gratitude and respect. 

JosEPH RIGOBERT. 


272 


Wilkie Collins oie 


LAST LINES.—ADDED BY PERCY FAIRBANK 


TRIED for the murder of Francis Raven, Joseph Rigobert 
was found Not Guilty; the papers of the assassinated man 
presented ample evidence of the deadly animosity felt 
toward him by his wife. 

The investigations pursued on the morning when the 
crime was committed showed that the murderess, after leav- 
ing the stable, had taken the footpath which led to the 
river. The river was dragged—without result. It remains 
doubtful to this day whether she died by drowning or not. 
The one thing certain is—that Alicia Warlock was never 
seen again. 

So— beginning in mystery, ending in mystery —the 
Dream Woman passes from your view. Ghost; demon; or 
living human creature—say for yourselves which she is. 
Or, knowing what unfathomed wonders are around you, 
what unfathomed wonders are in you, let the wise words 
of the greatest of all poets be explanation enough: 


‘We are such stuff 
As dreams are made of, and our little life 
‘Is rounded with a sleep.” 


273 


Anonymous 
The Lost Duchess 
I 


“HAS the duchess returned?” 
“No, your grace.” 

Knowles came farther into the room. He had a letter 
on a salver. When the duke had taken it, Knowles still | 
lingered. The duke glanced at him. 

“Ts an answer required?” 

“No, your grace.” Still Knowles lingered. “ Some- 
thing a little singular has happened. The carriage has re- 
turned without the duchess, and the men say that they 
thought her grace was in it.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“T hardly understand myself, your grace. Perhaps you 
would like to see Barnes.” 

Barnes was the coachman. 

“ Send him up.” When Knowles had gone, and he was 
alone, his grace showed signs of being slightly annoyed. 
He looked at his watch. “I told her she’d better be in 
by four. She says that she’s not feeling well, and yet one 
would think that she was not aware of the fatigue entailed 
in having the prince come to dinner, and a mob of people 
to follow. I particularly wished her to lie down for a couple 
of hours.” 

Knowles ushered in not only Barnes, the coachman, but 
Moysey, the footman, too. Both these persons seemed 
to be ill at ease. The duke glanced at them sharply. In 
his voice there was a suggestion of impatience. 

“What is the matter? ” 

Barnes explained as best he could. 


274 


~ 


‘The Lost Duchess 


“If you please, your grace, we waited for the duchess 
outside Cane and Wilson’s, the drapers. The duchess 
came out, got into the carriage, and Moysey shut the door, 
and her grace said, ‘Home!’ and yet when we got home 
she wasn’t there.” 

“She wasn’t. where? ” 

“Her grace wasn’t in the carriage, your grace.” 

“What on earth do you mean?” 

“Her grace did get into the carriage; you shut the door, 
didn’t you?” 

Barnes turned to Moysey. Moysey brought his hand 
up to his brow in a sort of military salute—he had been a 
soldier in the regiment in which, once upon a time, the 
duke had been a subaltern. 

“She did. The duchess came out of the shop. She 
seemed rather in a hurry, I thought. She got into the car- 
riage, and she said, ‘Home, Moysey!’ I shut the door, 
and Barnes drove straight home. We never stopped any- 
where, and we never noticed nothing happen on the way; 
and yet when we got home the carriage was empty.” 

The duke started. 

“Do you mean to tell me that the duchess got out of the 
carriage while you were driving full pelt through the streets 
without saying anything to you, and without you notic- 
inp ibs 

“The carriage was empty when we got home, your 
grace.” 

“Was either of the doors open?” 

“No, your grace.” 

“You fellows have been up to some infernal mischief. 
You have made a mess of it. You never picked up the 
duchess, and you're trying to palm this tale off on me to 
save yourselves.” 

Barnes was moved to adjuration: 

“Tl take my Bible oath, your grace, that the duchess 
got into the carriage outside Cane and Wilson’s.” 

Moysey seconded his colleague. 

“TI will swear to that, your grace. She got into that 


275 


English Mystery Stories 


carriage, and I shut the door, and she said, ‘Home, 
Moysey!’ ” 

The duke looked as if he did not know what to make of 
the story and its tellers. 

“What carriage did you have?” 

“Her grace’s brougham, your grace.” 

Knowles interposed: 

“The brougham was ordered because I Biderstans that 
the duchess was not feeling very well, and there’s rather a 
high wind, your grace.” 

The duke snapped at him: 

“What has that to do with it? Are you suggesting that 
the duchess was more likely to jump out of a brougham 
while it was dashing through the streets than out of any 
other kind of vehicle?” 

The duke’s glance fell on the letter which Knowles had 
brought him when he first had entered. He had placed 
it on his writing table. Now he took it up. It was ad- 
dressed: 


“To His Grace the Duke of Datchet. 
Private! 
VERY PRESSINGHE?” 


The name was written in a fine, clear, almost feminine 
hand. The words in the left-hand corner of the envelope 
were written in a different hand. They were large and 
bold; almost as though they had been painted with the end 
of the penholder instead of being written with the pen. 
The envelope itself was of an unusual size, and bulged 
out as though it contained something else besides a letter. 

The duke tore the envelope open. As he did so some- 
thing fell out of it on to the writing table. It looked as 
though it was a lock of-a woman’s hair. As he glanced 
at it the duke seemed to be a trifle startled. The duke read 
the letter: 


“Your grace will be so good as to bring five hundred 
pounds in gold to the Piccadilly end of the Burlington 
276 


The Lost Duchess 


Arcade within an hour of the receipt of this. The Duchess 
of Datchet has been kidnaped. An imitation duchess got 
into the carriage, which was waiting outside Cane and 
Wilson’s, and she alighted on the road. Unless your grace 
does as you are requested, the Duchess of Datchet’s left- 
hand little finger will be at once cut off, and sent home in 
time to receive the prince to dinner. Other portions of her 
grace will follow. A lock of her grace’s hair is inclosed 
with this as an earnest of our good intentions. 

“ Before 5:30 P.M. your grace is requested to be at the 
Piccadilly end of the Burlington Arcade with five hundred 
pounds in gold. You will there be accosted by an in- 
dividual in a white top hat, and with a gardenia in his 
buttonhole. You will be entirely at liberty to give him into 
custody, or to have him followed by the police, in which 
case the duchess’s left arm, cut off at the shoulder, will. 
be sent home for dinner—not to mention other extremely 
possible contingencies. But you are advised to give the 
individual in question the five hundred pounds in gold, 
because in that case the duchess herself will be home in 
time to receive the prince to dinner, and with one of the 
best stories with which to entertain your distinguished 
guests they ever heard. 

“Remember! not later than 5:30, unless you wish to re- 
ceive her grace’s little finger.” 


The duke stared at this amazing epistle when he had 
read it as though he found it difficult to believe the evi- 
dence of his eyes. He was not a demonstrative person, 
as a rule, but this little communication astonished even 
him. He read it again. Then his hands dropped to his 
sides, and he swore. 

He took up the lock of hair which had fallen out of the 
envelope. Was it possible that it could be his wife’s, the 
duchess? Was it possible that a Duchess of Datchet could 
be kidnaped, in broad daylight, in the heart of London, 
and be sent home, as it were, in pieces? Had sacrilegious 
hands already been playing pranks with that great lady’s 


277 


English Mystery Stories 


hair? Certainly, that hair was so like her hair that the 
mere resemblance made his grace’s blood run cold. He 
turned on Messrs. Barnes and Moysey as though he would 
have liked to rend them. 

“You scoundrels! ” 

He moved forward as though the intention had entered 
his ducal heart to knock his servants down. But, if that 
were so, he did not act quite up to his intention. Instead, 
he stretched out his arm, pointing at them as if he were 
an accusing spirit: 

“Will you swear that it was the duchess who got into 
the carriage outside Cane and Wilson’s?” 

Barnes began to stammer: 

“Tl swear, your grace, that I—I thought——” 

The duke stormed an interruption: 

“T don’t ask what you thought. I ask you, will you 
swear it was?” 

The duke’s anger was more than Barnes could face. He 
was silent. Moysey showed a larger courage. 

“ T could have sworn that it was at the time, your grace. 
But now it seems to me that it’s a rummy go.” 

“A rummy go!” The peculiarity of the phrase did not 
seem to strike the duke just then—at least, he echoed 
it as if it didn’t. “ You call ita rummy go! Do you know 
that I am told in this letter that the woman who entered 
the carriage was not the duchess? What you were think- 
ing about, or what case you will be able to make out for 
yourselves, you know better than I; but I can tell you this— 
that in an hour you will leave my service, and you may 
esteem yourselves fortunate if, to-night, you are not both 
of you sleeping in jail.” 

One might almost have suspected that the words were 
spoken in irony. But before they could answer, another 
servant entered, who also brought a letter for the duke. 
When his grace’s glance fell on it he uttered an exclama- 
tion. The writing on the envelope was the same writing 
that had been on the envelope which had contained the 
very singular communication—like it in all respects, down 


278 


The Lost Duchess 


to the broomstick-end thickness of the “ Private!” and 
“Very pressing!!!” in the corner. 

“Who brought this?” stormed the duke. 

The servant appeared to be a little startled by the vio- 
lence of his grace’s manner. 

“A lady—or, at least, your grace, she seemed to be a 
lady.” 

“Where is she?” 

“She came in a hansom, your grace. She gave me that 
letter, and said, ‘ Give that to the Duke of Datchet at once 
—without a moment’s delay!’ Then she got into the han- 
som again, and drove away.” 

“Why didn’t you stop her?” 

“Your grace!” 

The man seemed surprised, as though the idea of stop- 
ping chance visitors to the ducal mansion vi et armis had 
not, until that moment, entered into his philosophy. The 
duke continued to regard the man as if he could say a 
good deal, if he chose. Then he pointed to the door. His 
lips said nothing, but his gesture much. The servant van- 
ished. 

“Another hoax!” the duke said grimly, as he tore the 
envelope open. 

This time the envelope contained a sheet of paper, and in 
the sheet of paper another envelope. The duke unfolded the 
sheet of paper. On it some words were written. These: 

“The duchess appears so particularly anxious to drop 
you a line, that one really hasn’t the heart to refuse her. 

“Her grace’s communication—written amidst blinding 
tears!—you will find inclosed with this.” 

“Knowles,” said the duke, in a voice which actually 
trembled, “ Knowles, hoax or no hoax, I will be even with 
the gentleman who wrote that.” 

Handing the sheet of paper to Mr. Knowles, his grace 
turned his attention to the envelope which had been in- 
closed. It was a small, square envelope, of the finest qual- 
ity, and it reeked with perfume. The duke’s countenance 
assumed an added frown—he had no fondness for en- 


279 


English Mystery Stories — 


velopes which were scented. In the center of the envelope 
were the words, “To the Duke of Datchet,” written in the 
big, bold, sprawling hand which he knew so well. 

‘“Mabel’s writing,” he said, half to himself, as, with 
shaking fingers, he tore the envelope open. 

The sheet of paper which he took out was almost as 
stiff as cardboard. It, too, emitted what his grace deemed 
the nauseous odors of the perfumer’s shop. On it was 
written this letter: 


“My DEAR HEREwARD—For Heaven’s sake do what 
these people require! I don’t know what has happened or 
where I am, but I am nearly distracted! They have already 
cut off some of my hair, and they tell me that, if you don’t. 
let them have five hundred pounds in gold by half-past 
five, they will cut off my little finger too. I would sooner 
die than lose my little finger—and—I don’t know what 
else besides. 

“By the token which I send you, and which has never, 
until now, been off my breast, I conjure you to help me. 


“ Hereward—help me!” 


When he read that letter the duke turned white—very 
white, as white as the paper on which it was written. He 
passed the epistle on to Knowles. 

““T suppose that also is a hoax?” 

Mr. Knowles was silent. He still yielded to his constitu- 
tional disrelish to commit himself. At last he asked: 

“What is it that your grace proposes to do?” 

The duke spoke with a bitterness which almost suggested 
a personal animosity toward the inoffensive Mr. Knowles. 

“T propose, with your permission, to release the duchess 
from the custody of my estimable correspondent. I pro- 
pose—always with your permission—to comply with his 
modest request, and to take him his five hundred pounds 
in gold.” He paused, then continued in a tone which, com- 
ing from him, meant volumes: “ Afterwards, I propose to 
cry quits with the concocter of this pretty little hoax. even 

280 


The- Lost: Duckéss 


if it costs me every penny I possess. He shall pay more 
for that five hundred pounds than he supposes.” 


II 


THE Duke of Datchet, coming out of the bank, lingered 
for a moment on the steps. In one hand he carried a canvas 
bag which seemed well weighted. On his countenance there 
was an expression which to a casual observer might have 
suggested that his grace was not completely at his ease. 
That casual observer happened to come strolling by. It 
took the form of Ivor Dacre. 

Mr. Dacre looked the Duke of Datchet up and down in 
that languid way he has. He perceived the canvas bag. 
Then he remarked, possibly intending to be facetious: 

“ Been robbing the bank? Shall I call a cart?” 

Nobody minds what Ivor Dacre says. Besides, he is the 
duke’s own cousin. Perhaps a little removed; still, there it 
is. So the duke smiled a sickly smile, as if Mr. Dacre’s 
delicate wit had given him a passing touch of indigestion. 

Mr. Dacre noticed that the duke looked sallow, so he 
gave his pretty sense of humor another airing. 

“ Kitchen boiler burst? When I saw the duchess just 
now I wondered if it had.” 

His grace distinctly started. He almost dropped the 
canvas bag. 

“You saw the duchess just now, Ivor! When?” 

The duke was evidently moved. Mr. Dacre was stirred 
to languid curiosity. “I can’t say I clocked it. Perhaps 
half an hour ago; perhaps a little more.” 

“ Half an hour ago! Are you sure? Where did you see 
her?” 

Mr. Dacre wondered. The Duchess of Datchet could 
scarcely have been eloping in broad daylight. Moreover, 
she had not yet been married a year. Everyone knew that 
she and the duke were still as fond of each other as if they 
were not man and wife. So, although the duke, for some 

281 


English Mystery Stories 


cause or other, was evidently in an odd state of agitation, 
Mr. Dacre saw no reason why he should not make a clean 
breast of all he knew. 

“She was going like blazes in a hansom cab.” 

“In a hansom cab? Where?” 

“Down Waterloo Place.” 

“Was she alone? ”’ 

Mr. Dacre reflected. He glanced at the duke out of the 
corners of his eyes. His languid utterance became a posi- 
tive drawl. 

“T rather fancy that she wasn’t.” 

“Who was with her?” 

“My dear fellow, if you were to offer me the bank I 
couldn’t tell you.” ) 

“Was it a man?” 

Mr. Dacre’s drawl became still more pronounced. 

“T rather fancy that it was.” 

Mr. Dacre expected something. The duke was so ex- 
cited. But he by no means expected what actually came. 

“Tvor, she’s been kidnaped! ” 

Mr. Dacre did what he had never been known to do before 
within the memory of man—he dropped his eyeglass. 

“ Datchet ! ” 

“She has! Some scoundrel has decoyed her away, and 
trapped her. He’s already sent me a lock of her hair, and 
he tells me that if I don’t let him have five hundred pounds 
in gold by half-past five he’ll let me have her little finger.” 

Mr. Dacre did not know what to make of his grace at 
all. He was a sober man—it couldn't be that! Mr. Dacre 
felt really concerned. 

“Tl call a cab, old man, and you’d better let me see you 
home.” 

Mr. Dacre half raised his stick to hail a passing hansom. 
The duke caught him by the arm. 

“You ass! What do you mean? I am telling you the 
simple truth. My wife’s been kidnaped.” 

Mr. Dacre’s countenance was a thing to be seen—and 
remembered. 

282 


The Lost Duchess 


“Oh! I hadn’t heard that there was much of that sort 
of thing about just now. They talk of poodles being kid- 
naped, but as for duchesses— You'd really better let me 
call that cab.” 

“Tvor, do you want me to kick you? Don’t you see that 
to me it’s a question of life and death? I’ve been in there 
to get the money.” His grace motioned toward the bank. 
“Tm going to take it to the scoundrel who has my darling 
at his mercy. Let me but have her hand in mine again, 
and he shall continue to pay for every sovereign with tears 
of blood until he dies.” 

“Look here, Datchet, I don’t know if you’re having a 
joke with me, or if you’re not well——” 

The duke stepped impatiently into the roadway. 

“Tvor, you’re a fool! Can’t you tell jest from earnest, 
health from disease? I’m off! Are you coming with me? 
It would be as well that I should have a witness.” 

“Where are you off to?” 

“To the other end of the Arcade.” 

“Who is the gentleman you expect to have the pleasure 
of meeting there?” 

“ How should I know?” The duke took a letter from his 
pocket—it was the letter which had just arrived. ‘“ The fel- 
low is to wear a white top hat, and a gardenia in his 
buttonhole.”’ 

“What is it you have there?” 

“It’s the letter which brought the news—look for your- 
self and see; but, for God’s sake, make haste!” His grace 
glanced at his watch. “It’s already twenty after five.” 

“‘And do you mean to say that on the strength of a letter 
such as this you are going to hand over five hundred 
pounds to——” 

The duke cut Mr. Dacre short. 

“What are five hundred pounds to me? Besides, you 
don’t know all. There is another letter. And I have heard 
from Mabel. But I will tell you all about it later. If you 
are coming, come!” 

Folding up the letter, Mr. Dacre returned it to the duke. 

283 


English Mystery Stories 


“ As you say, what are five hundred pounds to you? It’s 
as well they are not as much to you as they are to me, or 
I’m afraid——” 

“ Hang it, Ivor, do prose afterwards!” 

The duke hurried across the road. Mr. Dacre hastened 
after him. As they entered the Arcade they passed a con- 
stable. Mr. Dacre touched his companion’s arm. 

“Don’t you think we’d better ask our friend in blue to 
walk behind us? His neighborhood might be handy.” 

“ Nonsense!” The duke stopped short. “Ivor, this is 
my affair, not yours. If you are not content to play the 
part of silent witness, be so good as to leave me.” 

“My dear Datchet, I’m entirely at your service. I can 
be every whit as insane as you, I do assure you.” 

Side by side they moved rapidly down the Burlington Ar- 
cade. The duke was obviously in a state of the extremest 
nervous tension. Mr. Dacre was equally obviously in a 
state of the most supreme enjoyment. People stared as they 
rushed past. The duke saw nothing. Mr. Dacre saw 
everything, and smiled. 

When they reached the Piccadilly end of the Arcade the 
duke pulled up. He looked about him. Mr. Dacre also 
looked about him. 

“T see nothing of your white-hatted and gardenia-button- 
holed friend,” said Ivor. 

The duke referred to his watch. 

“Tt’s not yet half-past five. I’m up to time.” 

Mr. Dacre held his stick in front of him and leaned on 
it. He indulged himself with a beatific smile. 

“Tt strikes me, my dear Datchet, that you’ve been the 
victim of one of the finest things in hoaxes——” 

“T hope I haven’t kept you waiting.” 

The voice which interrupted Mr. Dacre came from the 
rear. While they were looking in front of them some one 
approached them from behind, apparently coming out of 
the shop which was at their backs. 

The speaker looked a gentleman. He sounded like one, 
too. Costume, appearance, manner, were beyond reproach 

284 


The Lost Duchess 


—even beyond the criticism of two such keen critics as 
were these. The glorious attire of a London dandy was 
surmounted with a beautiful white top hat. In his button- 
hole was a magnificent gardenia. 

In age the stranger was scarcely more than a boy, and a 
sunny-faced, handsome boy at that. His cheeks were hair- 
less, his eyes were blue. His smile was not only innocent, 
it was bland. Never was there a more conspicuous illus- 
tration of that repose which stamps the caste of Vere de 
Vere. 

The duke looked at him and glowered. Mr. Dacre looked 
at him and smiled. 

“Who are you?” asked the duke. 

“ Ah—that is the question!” The newcomer’s refined 
and musical voice breathed the very soul of affability. “I 
am an individual who is so unfortunate as to be in want of 
five hundred pounds.” 

“Are you the scoundrel who sent me that infamous 
lettere*” 

The charming stranger never turned a hair. 

“T am the scoundrel mentioned in that infamous letter 
who wants to accost you at the Piccadilly end of the Bur- 
lington Arcade before half-past five—as witness my white 
hat and my gardenia.” 

“‘Where’s my wife?” 

The stranger gently swung his stick in front of him with 
his two hands. He regarded the duke as a merry-hearted 
son might regard his father. The thing was beautiful! 

“Her grace will be home almost as soon as you are— 
when you have given me the money which I perceive you 
have all ready for me in that scarcely elegant-looking can- 
vas bag.” He shrugged his shoulders quite gracefully. 
“Unfortunately, in these matters one has no choice—one is 
forced to ask for gold.” 

“And suppose, instead of giving you what is in this 
canvas bag, I take you by the throat and choke the life 
right out of you?” 

“Or suppose,” amended Mr. Dacre, “that you do better, 

285 


English Mystery Stories 


and commend this gentleman to the tender mercies of the 
first policeman we encounter.” 

The stranger turned to Mr. Dacre. He condescended to 
become conscious of his presence. 

“Ts this gentleman your grace’s friend? Ah—Mr. Dacre, 
I perceive! I have the honor of knowing Mr. Dacre, 
though, possibly, I am unknown to him.” 

“You were—until this moment.” 

With an airy little laugh the stranger returned to the 
duke. He brushed an invisible speck of dust off the sleeve 
of his coat. 

“As has been intimated in that infamous letter, his grace 
‘is at perfect liberty to give me into custody—why not? 
Only ”—he said it with his boyish smile—“if a particular © 
communication is not received from me in certain quarters 
within a certain time the Duchess of Datchet’s beautiful 
white arm will be hacked off at the shoulder.” 

“You hound!” 

The duke would have taken the stranger by the throat, 
and have done his best to choke the life right out of him 
then and there, if Mr. Dacre had not intervened. 

“Steady, old man!” Mr. Dacre turned to the stranger. 
“You appear to be a pretty sort of a scoundrel.” 

The stranger gave his shoulders that almost imperceptible 
shrug. 

“Oh, my dear Dacre, J am in want of money! I believe 
that you sometimes are in want of money, too.” 

Everybody knows that nobody knows where Ivor Dacre 
gets his money from, so the allusion must have tickled him 
immensely. 

“You’re a cool hand,” he said. 

“Some men are born that way.” 

“So I should imagine. Men like you must be born, not 
made.” 

“Precisely—as you say!” The stranger turned, with 
his graceful smile, to the duke: “ But are we not wasting 
precious time? I can assure your grace that, in this par- 
ticular matter, moments are of value.” 

286 


The Lost Duchess 


Mr. Dacre interposed before the duke could answer. 

“Tf you take my strongly urged advice, Datchet, you will 
summon this constable who is now coming down the Ar- 
cade, and hand this gentleman over to his keeping. I do 
not think that you need fear that the duchess will lose her 
arm, or even her little finger. Scoundrels of this one’s 
kidney are most amenable to reason when they have hand- 
cuffs on their wrists.” 

The duke plainly hesitated. He would—and he would 
not. The stranger, as he eyed him, seemed much amused. 

“My dear duke, by all means act on Mr. Dacre’s valuable 
suggestion. As I said before, why not? It would at least 
be interesting to see if the duchess does or does not lose 
her arm—almost as interesting to you as to Mr. Dacre. 
Those blackmailing, kidnaping scoundrels do use such 
empty menaces. Besides, you would have the pleasure of 
seeing me locked up. My imprisonment for life would 
recompense you even for the loss of her grace’s arm. And 
five hundred pounds is such a sum to have to pay—merely 
for a wife! Why not, therefore, act on Mr. Dacre’s sug- 
gestion? Here comes the constable.” The constable re- 
ferred to was advancing toward them—he was not a dozen 
yards away. “Let me beckon to him—TI will with pleas- 
ure.” He took out his watch—a gold chronograph repeater. 
“There are scarcely ten minutes left during which it will 
be possible for me to send the communication which I spoke 
of, so that it may arrive in time. As it will then be too 
late, and the instruments are already prepared for the little 
operation which her grace is eagerly anticipating, it would, 
perhaps, be as well, after all, that you should give me into 
charge. You would have saved your five hundred pounds, 
and you would, at any rate, have something in exchange 
for her grace’s mutilated limb. Ah, here is the constable! 
Officer ! ” 

The stranger spoke with such a pleasant little air of easy 
geniality that it was impossible to tell if he were in jest 
or in earnest. This fact impressed the duke much more 
than if he had gone in for a liberal indulgence of the— 

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English Mystery Stories 


under the circumstances—orthodox melodramatic scowling. 
And, indeed, in the face of his own common sense, it im- 
pressed Mr. Ivor Dacre too. 

This well-bred, well-groomed youth was just the being 
to realize—aux bouts des ongles—a modern type of the 
devil, the type which depicts him as a perfect gentleman, 
who keeps smiling all the time. 

The constable whom this audacious rogue had signaled 
approached the little group. He addressed the stranger: 

“Do you want me, sir?” 

“No, I do not want you. I think it is the Duke of 
Datchet.” | 

The constable, who knew the duke very well by sight, 
saluted him as he turned to receive instructions. 

The duke looked white, even savage. There was not a 
pleasant look in his eyes and about his lips. He appeared 
to be endeavoring to put a great restraint upon himself. 
There was a momentary silence. Mr. Dacre made a move- 
ment as if to interpose. The duke caught him by the arm. 

He spoke: “ No, constable, I do not want you. This 
person is mistaken.” . 

The constable looked as if he could not quite make out 
how such a mistake could have arisen, hesitated, then, with 
another salute, he moved away. 

The stranger was still holding his watch in his hand. 

“Only eight minutes,” he said. 

The duke seemed to experience some difficulty in giving 
utterance to what he had to say. 

t “Tf I give you this five hundred pounds, you—you 

As the duke paused, as if at a loss for language which 
was strong enough to convey his meaning, the stranger 
laughed. 

“Let us take the adjectives for granted. Besides, it is 
only boys who call each other names—men do things. If 
you give me the five hundred sovereigns, which you have 
in that bag, at once—in five minutes it will be too late— 
I will promise—I will not swear; if you do not credit my 
simple promise, you will not believe my solemn affirma- 

288 


99 


The Lost Duchess 


tion—I will promise that, possibly within an hour, certainly 
within an hour and a half, the Duchess of Datchet shall 
return to you absolutely uninjured—except, of course, as 
you are already aware, with regard to a few of the hairs of 
her head. I will promise this on the understanding that 
you do not yourself attempt to see where I go, and that 
you will allow no one else to do so.” This with a glance 
at Ivor Dacre. “I shall know at once if I am followed. 
If you entertain such intentions, you had better, on all ac- 
counts, remain in possession of your five hundred pounds.” 

The duke eyed him very grimly. 

“TI entertain no such intentions—until the duchess re- 
turns.” 

Again the stranger indulged in that musical laugh of 
his. 

“Ah, until the duchess returns! Of course, then the 
bargain’s at an end. When you are once more in the en- 
joyment of her grace’s society, you will be at liberty to 
set all the dogs in Europe at my heels. I assure you I fully 
expect that you will do so—why not?” The duke raised 
the canvas bag. “My dear duke, ten thousand thanks! 
You shall see her grace at Datchet House, ’pon my honor, 
probably within the hour.” 

“Well,” commented Ivor Dacre, when the stranger had 
vanished, with the bag, into Piccadilly, and as the duke 
and himself moved toward Burlington Gardens, “ if a gen- 
tleman is to be robbed, it is as well that he should have 
another gentleman rob him.” 


III 


Mr. Dacre eyed his companion covertly as they pro- 
gressed. His Grace of Datchet appeared to have some fresh 
cause for uneasiness. All at once he gave it utterance, in 
a tone of voice which was extremely somber: 

“Tvor, do you think that scoundrel will dare to play me 
false?” 

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“T think,” murmured Mr. Dacre, “that he has dared to 
play you pretty false already.” 

“TIT don’t mean that. But I mean how am I to know, 
now that he has his money, that he will still not keep Mabel 
in his clutches?” 

There came an echo from Mr. Dacre. 

“Just so—how are you to know?” 

“TI believe that something of this sort has been done in 
the States.” 

“TI thought that there they were content to kidnap them 
after they were dead. I was not aware that they had, as 
yet, got quite so far as the living.” 

“TI believe that I have heard of something just like this.” 

“ Possibly ; they are giants over there.” : 

“And in that case the scoundrels, when their demands 
were met, refused to keep to the letter of their bargain and 
asked for more.” 

The duke stood still. He clinched his fists, and swore: 

ALVOr, -th-that villain doesn’t keep his word, and 
Mabel isn’t home within the hour, by I shall go mad! ” 

“My dear Datchet ”—Mr. Dacre loved strong language 
as little as he loved a scene—“ let us trust to time and, 
a little, to your white-hatted and gardenia-buttonholed 
friend’s word of honor. You should have thought of pos- 
sible eventualities before you showed your confidence— 
really. Suppose, instead of going mad, we first of all 
go home?” 

A hansom stood waiting for a fare at the end of the 
Arcade. Mr. Dacre had handed the duke into it before his 
grace had quite realized that the vehicle was there. 

“Tell the fellow to drive faster.” That was what the 
duke said when the cab had started. 

“My dear Datchet, the man’s already driving his geer- 
age off its legs. If a bobby catches sight of him he’ll take 
his number.” 

A moment later, a murmur from the duke: 

“T don’t know if you’re aware that the prince is coming 
to dinner?” 


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The Lost Duchess 


“T am perfectly aware of it.” 

“You take it uncommonly cool. How easy it is to bear 
our brother’s burdens! Ivor, if Mabel doesn’t turn up 
I shall feel like murder.” 

“T sympathize with you, Datchet, with all my heart, 
though, I may observe, parenthetically, that I very far from 
realize the situation even yet. Take my advice. If the 
duchess does not show quite as soon as we both of us 
‘desire, don’t make a scene; just let me see what I can do.” 

Judging from the expression of his countenance, the 
duke was conscious of no overwhelming desire to witness 
an exhibition of Mr. Dacre’s prowess. 

When the cab reached Datchet House his grace dashed 
up the steps three at atime. The door flew open. 

“Has the duchess returned?” 

“ Hereward! ” 

A voice floated downward from above. Some one came 
running down the stairs. It was her Grace of Datchet. 

“ Mabel! ” 

She actually rushed into the duke’s extended arms. And 
he kissed her, and she kissed him—before the servants. 

“So you’re not quite dead?” she cried. 

“T am almost,” he said. 

She drew herself a little away from him. 

“ Hereward, were you seriously hurt?” 

“Do you suppose that I could have been otherwise than 
seriously hurt?” 

“My darling! Was it a Pickford’s van?” 

The duke stared. 

“A Pickford’s van? I don’t understand. But come in 
here. Come along, Ivor. Mabel, you don’t see Ivor.” 

“How do you do, Mr. Dacre?” 

Then the trio withdrew into a little anteroom; it was 
really time. Even then the pair conducted themselves as 
if Mr. Dacre had been nothing and no one. The duke took 
the lady’s two hands in his. He eyed her fondly. 

“So you are uninjured, with the exception of that lock 
of hair. Where did the villain take it from?” 

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English Mystery Stories 


The lady looked a little puzzled. 

“What lock of hair?” 

From an envelope which he took from his pocket the 
duke produced a shining tress. It was the lock of hair 
which had arrived in the first communication. “I will have 
it framed.” 

“You will have what framed?” The duchess glanced 
at what the duke was so tenderly caressing, almost, as it 
seemed, a little dubiously. “ Whatever is it you have 
there?” 

“Tt is the lock of hair which that scoundrel sent me.” 
Something in the lady’s face caused him to ask a question: 
“ Didn’t he tell you he had sent it to me?” 

“ Hereward! ” 

“ Did the brute tell you that he meant to cut off your 
little finger? ” 

A very curious look came into the lady’s face. She 
glanced at the duke as if she, all at once, was half afraid of 
him. She cast at Mr. Dacre what really seemed to be a 
look of inquiry. Her voice was tremulously anxious. 

“ Hereward, did—did the accident affect you mentally?” 

“ How could it not have affected me mentally? Do you 
think that my mental organization is of steel?” 

“But you look so well.” 

“ Of course I look well, now that I have you back again. 
Tell me, darling, did that hound actually threaten you with 
cutting off your arm? If he did, I shall feel half inclined 
to kill him yet.” 

The duchess seemed positively to shrink from cs better 
half’s near neighborhood. 

“ Hereward, was it a Pickford’s van?” 

The duke seemed puzzled. Well he might be. 

“Was what a Pickford’s van?” 

The lady turned to Mr. Dacre. In her voice there was 
a ring of anguish. 

“Mr. Dacre, tell me, was it a Pickford’s van?”’ 

Ivor could only imitate his relative’s repetition of her 
inquiry. 

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The Lost Duchess 


“T don’t quite catch you—was what a Pickford’s van?” 

The duchess clasped her hands in front of her. 

“What is it you are keeping from me? What is it 
you are trying to hide? I implore you to tell me the worst, 
whatever it may be! Do not keep me any longer in sus- 
pense; you do not know what I already have endured. 
Mr. Dacre, is my husband mad?” 

One need scarcely observe that the lady’s amazing ap- 
peal to Mr. Dacre as to her husband’s sanity was received 
with something like surprise. As the duke continued to 
stare at her, a dreadful fear began to loom in his brain. 

“My darling, your brain is unhinged!” 

He advanced to take her two hands again in his; but, 
to his unmistakable distress, she shrank away from him. 

““Hereward—don’t touch me. How is it that I missed 
you? Why did you not wait until I came?” 

“Wait until you came?” 

The duke’s bewilderment increased. 

“ Surely, if your injuries turned out, after all, to be slight, 
that was all the more reason why you should have waited, 
after sending for me like that.” 

“T sent for you—I?” The duke’s tone was grave. 
“My darling, perhaps you had better come upstairs.” 

“Not until we have had an explanation. You must 
have known that I should come. Why did you not wait 
for me after you had sent me that?” 

The duchess held out something to the duke. He took 
it. It was a card—his own visiting card. Something was 
written on the back of it. He read aloud what was written. 

“““ Mabel, come to me at once with the bearer. They 
tell me that they cannot take me home.’ It looks like my 
own writing.” 

“Looks like it! It is your writing.” 

“Tt looks like it—and written with a shaky pen.” 

“My dear child, one’s hand would shake at such a mo- 
ment as that.” 

“Mabel, where did you get this?” 

“Tt was brought to me in Cane and Wilson’s.” 


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English Mystery Stories 


“Who brought it?” 

“Who brought it? Why, the man you sent.” 

“The man I sent!” A light burst upon the duke’s brain. 
He fell back a pace. “It’s the decoy!” 

Her grace echoed the words: 

rutile GecOys 

“The scoundrel! To set a trap with such a bait! My 
poor innocent darling, did you think it came from me? 
Tell me, Mabel, where did he cut off your hair?” 

© Cut-off my Nair?” 

Her grace put her hand to her head as if to make sure 
that her hair was there. 

“Where did he take you to?” 

“He took me to Draper’s Buildings.” 

“Draper’s Buildings?” 

““T have never been in the City before, but he told me 
it was Draper’s Buildings. Isn’t that near the Stock Ex- 
change? ” 

“ Near the Stock Exchange?” 

It seemed rather a curious place to which to take a kid- 
naped victim. The man’s audacity! 

“He told me that you were coming out of the Stock 
Exchange when a van knocked you over. He said that he 
thought it was a Pickford’s van—was it a Pickford’s van?” 

“No, it was not a Pickford’s van. Mabel, were you in 
Draper’s Buildings when you wrote that letter?” 

“Wrote what letter?” 

“Have you forgotten it already? I do not believe that 
there is a word in it which will not be branded on my brain 
until I die.” 

“Hereward! What do you mean?” 

“Surely you cannot have written me such a letter as 
that, and then have forgotten it already? ” 

He handed her the letter which had arrived in the sec- 
ond communication. She glanced at it, askance. Then she 
took it with a little gasp. 

“ Hereward, if you don’t mind, I think I’ll take a chair.” 
She took a chair. “ Whatever—whatever’s this?” As she 


204 


The Lost Duchess 


read the letter the varying expressions which passed across 
her face were, in themselves, a study in psychology. “Is 
it possible that you can imagine that, under any conceiv- 
able circumstances, I could have written such a letter as 
this?” 

““ Mabel! ” 

She rose to her feet with emphasis. 

“ Hereward, don’t say that you thought this came from 
me!” 

“Not from you?” He remembered Knowles’s diplo- 
matic reception of the epistle on its first appearance. “TI 
suppose that you will say next that this is not a lock of 
your hair?” 

“My dear child, what bee have you got in your bon- 
net? This a lock of my hair! Why, it’s not in the least 
bit like my hair!” 

Which was certainly inaccurate. As far as color was 
concerned it was an almost perfect match. The duke 
turned to Mr. Dacre. 

“Tvor, ’ve had to go through a good deal this after- 
noon. If I have to go through much more, something 
will crack!” He touched his forehead. “I think it’s my 
turn to take a chair.’”’ Not the one which the duchess had 
vacated, but one which faced it. He stretched out his 
legs in front of him; he thrust his hands into his trousers 
pockets; he said, in a tone which was not gloomy but ab- 
solutely grewsome: 

“ Might I ask, Mabel, if you have been kidnaped?” 

“ Kidnaped ? ” 

“The word I used was ‘kidnaped.’ But I will spell 
it if you like. Or I will get a dictionary, that you may 
see its meaning.” : 

The duchess looked as if she was beginning to be not 
quite sure if she was awake or sleeping. She turned to 
Ivor. 

“Mr. Dacre, has the accident affected Hereward’s 
brain?” 

The duke took the words out of his cousin’s mouth. 

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English Mystery Stories 


“On that point, my dear, let me ease your mind. I 
don’t know if you are under the impression that I should 
be the same shape after a Pickford’s van had run over me 
as I was before; but, in any case, I have not been run over 
by a Pickford’s van. So far as I am concerned there has 
been no accident. Dismiss that delusion from your mind.” 

ce Oh! 39 

“You appear surprised. One might even think that 
you were sorry. But may I now ask what you did when 
you arrived at Draper’s Buildings?” 

“Did! I looked for you!” 

“Indeed! And when you had looked in vain, what was 
the next item in your programme?” 

The lady shrank still farther from him. : 

“ Hereward, have you been having a jest at my expense? 
Can you have been so cruel?” Tears stood in her eyes. 

Rising, the duke laid his hand upon her arm. 

“ Mabel, tell me—what did you do when you had looked 
for me in vain?” 

“TI looked for you upstairs and downstairs and every- 
where. It was quite a large place, it took me ever such 
atime. I thought that I should go distracted. Nobody 
seemed to know anything about you, or even that there 
had been an accident at all—it was all offices. I couldn’t 
make it out in the least, and the people didn’t seem to be 
able to make me out either. So when I couldn’t find you 
anywhere I came straight home again.” 

The duke was silent for a moment. Then with funereal 
gravity he turned to Mr. Dacre. He put to him this 
question: 

“Ivor, what are you laughing at?”’ 

Mr. Dacre drew his hand across his mouth with rather 
a suspicious gesture. 

“My dear fellow, only a smile!” 

The duchess looked from one to the other. 

“What have you two been doing? What is the joke?” 

With an air of preternatural solemnity the duke took 
two letters from the breast pocket of his coat. 


296 


The Lost Duchess 


“ Mabel, you have already seen your letter. You have 
already seen the lock of your hair. Just look at this—and 
that.” 

He gave her the two very singular communications 
which had arrived in such a mysterious manner, and so 
quickly one after the other. She read them with wide- 
open eyes. 

“Hereward! Wherever did these come from?” 

The duke was standing with his legs apart, and his hands 
in his trousers pockets. “I would give—I would give 
another five hundred pounds to know. Shall I tell you, 
madam, what I have been doing? I have been presenting 
five hundred golden sovereigns to a perfect stranger, with a 
top hat, and a gardenia in his buttonhole.” 

~ Whatever fors~ 

“Tf you have perused those documents which you have 
in your hand, you will have some faint idea. Ivor, when 
it’s your funeral, /’/] smile. Mabel, Duchess of Datchet, 
it is beginning to dawn upon the vacuum which represents 
my brain that I’ve been the victim of one of the prettiest 
things in practical jokes that ever yet was planned. When 
that fellow brought you that card at Cane and Wilson’s— 
which, I need scarcely tell you, never came from me— 
some one walked out of the front entrance who was so 
exactly like you that both Barnes and Moysey took her 
for you. Moysey showed her into the carriage, and 
Barnes drove her home. But when the carriage reached 
home it was empty. Your double had got out upon the 
road.” 

The duchess uttered a sound which was half gasp, half 
sigh. 

* Hereward! ” 

“Barnes and Moysey, with beautiful and childlike inno- 
cence, when they found that they had brought the thing 
home empty, came straightway and told me that you had 
jumped out of the brougham while it had been driving full 
pelt through the streets. While I was digesting that piece 
of information there came the first epistle, with the lock 


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English Mystery Stories 


of your hair. Before I.had time to digest that there came 
the second epistle, with yours inside.” 

“It seems incredible! ” 

“Tt sounds incredible; but unfathomable is the folly of 
man, especially of a man who loves his wife.” The duke 
crossed to Mr. Dacre. “I don’t want, Ivor, to suggest 
anything in the way of bribery and corruption, but if you 
could keep this matter to yourself, and not mention it to 
your friends, our white-hatted and gardenia-buttonholed 
acquaintance is welcome to his five hundred pounds, and— 
Mabel, what on earth are you laughing at?” 

The duchess appeared, all at once, to be seized with 
inextinguishable laughter. 

“ Hereward,” she cried, “just think how that man must 
be laughing at you!” 

And the Duke of Datchet thought of it. 


The Minor Canon 


Ir was Monday, and in the afternoon, as I was walk- 
ing along the High Street of Marchbury, I was met by a 
distinguished-looking person whom I had observed at the 
services in the cathedral on the previous day. Now it 
chanced on that Sunday that I was singing the service. 
Properly speaking, it was not my turn; but, as my brother 
minor canons were either away from Marchbury or ill in 
bed, I was the only one left to perform the necessary duty. 
The distinguished-looking person was a tall, big man with 
a round fat face and small features. His eyes, his hair and 
mustache (his face was bare but for a small mustache) were 
quite black, and he had a very pleasant and genial expres- 
sion. He wore a tall hat, set rather jauntily on his head, 
and he was dressed in black with a long frock coat but- 
toned across the chest and fitting him close to the body. 
As he came, with a half saunter, half swagger, along the 
street, I knew him again at once by his appearance; and, 
as he came nearer, I saw from his manner that he was in- 


298 


The Minor Canon 


tending to stop and speak to me, for he slightly raised his 
hat and in a soft, melodious voice with a colonial “ twang ” 
which was far from being disagreeable, and which, indeed, 
to my ear gave a certain additional interest to his remarks, 
he saluted me with “ Good day, sir!” 

“Good day,” I answered, with just a little reserve in my 
tone. 

““T hope, sir,” he began, “ you will excuse my stopping 
you in the street, but I wish to tell you how very much I 
enjoyed the music at your cathedral yesterday. JI am an 
Australian, sir, and we have no such music in my country.” 

“TI suppose not,” I said. 

“No, sir,” he went on, “nothing nearly so fine. I am 
very fond of music, and as my business brought me in this 
direction, I thought I would stop at your city and take the 
opportunity of paying a visit to your grand cathedral. And 
I am delighted I came; so pleased, indeed, that I should 
like to leave some memorial of my visit behind me. I 
should like, sir, to do something for your choir.” 

“T am sure it is very kind of you,” I replied. 

“Yes, I should certainly be glad if you could suggest to 
me something I might do in this way. As regards money, 
I may say that I have plenty of it. I am the owner of a 
most valuable property. My business relations extend 
throughout the world, and if I am as fortunate in the 
projects of the future as I have been in the past, I shall 
probably one day achieve the proud position of being the 
richest man in the world.” 

I did not like to undertake myself the responsibility of 
advising or suggesting, so I simply said: 

“T cannot venture to say, offhand, what would be the 
most acceptable way of showing your great kindness and 
generosity, but I should certainly recommend you to put 
yourself in communication with the dean.” 

“Thank you, sir,” said my Australian friend, “I will do 
so. And now, sir,” he continued, “let me say how much 
I admire your voice. It is, without exception, the very 
finest and clearest voice I have ever heard.” 


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English Mystery Stories 


“ Really,” I answered, qtite overcome with such un- 
qualified praise, “really it is very good of you to say so.” 

‘“‘ Ah, but I feel it, my dear sir. I have been round the 
world, from Sydney to Frisco, across the continent of 
America” (he called it Amerrker) “to New York City, 
then on to England, and to-morrow I shall leave your city 
to continue my travels. But in all my experience I have 
never heard so grand a voice as your own.” 

This and a great deal more he said in the same strain, 
which modesty forbids me to reproduce. 

Now I am not without some knowledge of the world out- 
side the close of Marchbury Cathedral, and I could not lis- 
ten to such a “ flattering tale” without having my sus- 
picions aroused. Who and what is this man? thought I. 
I looked at him narrowly. At first the thought flashed 
across me that he might be a “swell mobsman.” But no, 
his face was too good for that; besides, no man with that 
huge frame, that personality so marked and so easily rec- 
ognizable, could be a swindler; he could not escape detec- 
tion a single hour. I dismissed the ungenerous thought. 
Perhaps he is rich, as he says. We do hear of munificent 
donations by benevolent millionaires now and then. What 
if this Australian, attracted by the glories of the old cathe- 
dral, should now appear as a deus ex machina to reéndow 
the choir, or to found a musical professoriate in connection 
with the choir, appointing me the first occupant of the pro- 
fessorial chair? 

These thoughts flashed across my mind in the momentary 
pause of his fluent tongue. 

“As for yourself, sir,’ he began again, “I have some- 
thing to propose which I trust may not prove unwelcome. 
But the public street is hardly a suitable place to discuss 
my proposal. May I call upon you this evening at your 
house in the close? I know which it is, for I happened 
to see you go into it yesterday after the morning service.” 

“T shall be very pleased to see you,” I replied. “ We are 
going out to dinner this evening, but I shall be at home 
and disengaged till about seven.” 

300 


The Minor Canon 


“Thank you very much. Then I shall do myself the 
pleasure of calling upon you about six o’clock. Till then, 
farewell!” A graceful wave of the hand, and my un- 
known friend had disappeared round the corner of the 
Street. 

Now at last, I thought, something is going to happen 
in my uneventful life—something to break the monotony 
of existence. Of course, he must have inquired my name 
—he could get that from any of the cathedral vergers— 
and, as he said, he had observed whereabouts in the close 
I lived. What is he coming to see me for? I wondered. I 
spent the rest of the afternoon in making the wildest sur- 
mises. I was castle-building in Spain at a furious rate. 
At one time I imagined that this faithful son of the church— 
as he appeared to me—was going to build and endow a 
grand cathedral in Australia on condition that I should be 
appointed dean at a yearly stipend of, say, ten thousand 
pounds. Or perhaps, I said to myself, he will beg me to 
accept a sum of money—I never thought of it as less than 
a thousand pounds—as a slight recognition of and tribute 
to my remarkable vocal ability. 

I took a long, lonely walk into the country to correct 
these ridiculous fancies and to steady my mind, and when 
I reached home and had refreshed myself with a quiet cup 
of afternoon tea, I felt I was morally and physically pre- 
pared for my interview with the opulent stranger. 

Punctually as the cathedral clock struck six there was a 
ring at the visitor’s bell. In a moment or two my unknown 
friend was shown into the drawing-room, which he entered 
with the easy air of a man of the world. I noticed he was 
carrying a small black bag. 

“How do you do again, Mr. Dale?” he said as though 
we were old acquaintances; “you see I have come sharp 
to my time.” 

“Yes,” I answered, “and I am pleased to see you; do 
sit down.” He sank into my best armchair, and placed his 
bag on the floor beside him. 

“ Since we met in the afternoon,” he said, “ I have written 

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English Mystery Stories 


a letter to your dean, expressing the great pleasure I felt 
in listening to your choir, and at the same time I inclosed 
a five-pound note, which I begged him to divide among 
the choir boys and men, from Alexander Poulter, Esq., of 
Poulter’s Pills. You have of course heard of the world- 
renowned Poulter’s Pills. I am Poulter!” 

Poulter of Poulter’s Pills! My heart sank within me! 
A five-pound note! My airy castles were tottering! 

“T also sent him a couple of hundred of my pamphlets, 
which IJ said I trusted he would be so kind as to distribute 
in the close.” 

IT was aghast! 

“ And now, with regard to the special object of my call, 
Mr. Dale. If you will allow me to say so, you are not 
making the most of that grand voice of yours; you are 
hidden under an ecclesiastical bushel here—lost to the world. 
You are wasting your vocal strength and sweetness on the 
desert air, so to speak. Why, if I may hazard a guess, I 
don’t suppose you make five hundred a year here, at the 
outside?” 

I could say nothing. 

“Well, now, I can put you into the way of making at 
least three or four times as much as that. Listen! I am 
Alexander Poulter, of Poulter’s Pills. I have a proposal 
to make to you. The scheme is bound to succeed, but I 
want your help. Accept my proposal and your fortune’s 
made. Did you ever hear Moody and Sankey?” he asked 
abruptly. 

The man is an idiot, thought I; he is now fairly carried 
away with his particular mania. Will it last long? Shall 
I ring? 

“Novelty, my dear sir,” he went on, “is the rule of the 
day; and there must be novelty in advertising, as in every- 
thing else, to catch the public interest. So I intend to go 
on a tour, lecturing on the merits of Poulter’s Pills in all 
the principal halls of all the principal towns all over the 
world. But I have been delayed in carrying out my idea till 
IT could associate myself with a gentleman such as yourself. 

302 


The Minor Canon 


Will you join me? I should be the Moody of the tour; 
you would be its Sankey. I would speak my patter, and 
you would intersperse my orations with melodious ballads 
bearing upon the virtues of Poulter’s Pills. The ballads 
are all ready!” 

So saying, he opened that bag and drew forth from its 
recesses nothing more alarming than a thick roll of manu- 
script music. 

‘““The verses are my own,” he said, with a little touch of 
pride; “and as for the music, I thought it better to make 
use of popular melodies, so as to enable an audience to join 
in the chorus. See, here is one of the ballads: ‘ Darling, 
I am better now.’ It describes the woes of a fond lover, 
or rather his physical ailments, until he went through a 
course of Poulter. Here’s another: ‘I’m ninety-five! I’m 
ninety-five!’ You catch the drift of that, of course—a 
healthy old age, secured by taking Poulter’s Pills. Ah! 
what’s this? ‘ Little sister’s last request.’ I fancy the idea 
of that is to beg the family never to be without Poulter’s 
Pills. Here again: ‘Then. you'll remember me!’ I’m 
afraid that title is not original; never mind, the song is. 
And here is—but there are many more, and I won’t detain 
you with them now.” He saw, perhaps, I was getting 
impatient. Thank Heaven, however, he was no escaped 
lunatic. I was safe! 

“Mr. Poulter,” said I, “I took you this afternoon for a 
disinterested and philanthropic millionaire; you take me 
for—for—something different from what I am. We have 
both made mistakes. In a word, it is impossible for me to 
accept your offer! ” 

“Ts that final?” asked Poulter. 

“Certainly,” said I. 

Poulter gathered his manuscripts together and replaced 
them in the bag, and got up to leave the room. 

“Good evening, Mr. Dale,” he said mournfully, as I 
opened the door of the room. “Good evening ”’—he kept 
on talking till he was fairly out of the house—‘ mark my 
words, you'll be sorry—very sorry—one day that you 


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English Mystery Stories 


did not fall in with my scheme. Offers like mine don’t 
come every day, and you will one day regret having 
refused it.” 

With these words he left the house. 

I had little appetite for my dinner that evening. 


The Pipe 


“RANDOLPH Crescent, N. W. 
“NAY pEAR PucH—lI hope you will like the pipe which I 
send with this. It is rather a curious example of a 
certain school of Indian carving. And is a present from 
“Yours truly, JosEpH TREss.” 


It was really very handsome of Tress—very handsome! 
The more especially as I was aware that to give presents 
was not exactly in Tress’s line. The truth is that when 
I saw what manner of pipe it was I was amazed. It was 
contained in a sandalwood box, which was itself illustrated 
with some remarkable specimens of carving. I use the 
word “remarkable” advisedly, because, although the 
workmanship was undoubtedly, in its way, artistic, the re- 
sult could not be described as beautiful. The carver had 
thought proper to ornament the box with some of the 
ugliest figures I remember to have seen. They appeared 
to me to be devils. Or perhaps they were intended to 
represent deities appertaining to some mythological system 
with which, thank goodness, I am unacquainted. The pipe 
itself was worthy of the case in which it was contained. 
It was of meerschaum, with an amber mouthpiece. It was 
rather too large for ordinary smoking. But then, of course, 
one doesn’t smoke a pipe like that. There are pipes in my 
collection which I should as soon think of smoking as I 
should of eating. Ask a china maniac to let you have after- 
noon tea out of his Old Chelsea, and you will learn some 
home truths as to the durability of human friendships. 


304 


The Pipe 


The glory of the pipe, as Tress had suggested, lay in 
its carving. Not that I claim that it was beautiful, any 
more than I make such a claim for the carving on the box, 
but, as Tress said in his note, it was curious. 

The stem and the bowl were quite plain, but on the edge 
of the bowl was perched some kind of lizard. I told my- 
self it was an octopus when I first saw it, but I have since 
had reason to believe that it was some almost unique mem- 
ber of the lizard tribe. The creature was represented as 
climbing over the edge of the bowl down toward the stem, 
and its legs, or feelers, or tentacula, or whatever the things 
are called, were, if I may use a vulgarism, sprawling about 
“all over the place.” For instance, two or three of them 
were twined about the bowl, two or three of them were 
twisted round the stem, and one, a particularly horrible 
one, was uplifted in the air, so that if you put the pipe 
in your mouth the thing was pointing straight at your 
nose. 

Not the least agreeable feature about the creature was 
that it was hideously lifelike. It appeared to have been 
carved in amber, but some coloring matter must have 
been introduced, for inside the amber the creature was of 
a peculiarly ghastly green. The more I examined the pipe 
the more amazed I was at Tress’s generosity. He and I 
are rival collectors. I am not going to say, in so many 
words, that his collection of pipes contains nothing but 
rubbish, because, as a matter of fact, he has two or three 
rather decent specimens. But to compare his collection to 
mine would be absurd. Tress is conscious of this, and 
he resents it. He resents it to such an extent that he has 
been known, at least on one occasion, to declare that one 
single pipe of his—I believe he alluded to the Brummagem 
relic preposterously attributed to Sir Walter Raleigh—was 
worth the whole of my collection put together. Although 
I have forgotten this, as I hope I always shall forgive 
remarks made when envious passions get the better of our 
nobler nature, even of a Joseph Tress, it is not to be sup- 
posed that I have forgotten it. He was, therefore, not 


305 


English Mystery Stories 


at all the sort of person from whom I expected to receive 
a present. And such a present! I do not believe that he 
himself had a finer pipe in his collection. And to have 
given it to me! I had misjudged the man. I wondered 
where he had got it from. I had seen his pipes; I knew 
them off by heart—and some nice trumpery he has among 
them, too! but I had never seen that pipe before. The 
more I looked at it, the more my amazement grew. The 
beast perched upon the edge of the bowl was so lifelike. 
Its two bead-like eyes seemed to gleam at me with posi- 
tively human intelligence. The pipe fascinated me to such 
an extent that I actually resolved to—smoke it! 

I filled it with Perique. Ordinarily I use Birdseye, but 
on those very rare occasions on which I use a specimen I 
smoke Perique. I lit up with quite a small sensation of 
excitement. As I did so I kept my eyes perforce fixed 
upon the beast. The beast pointed its upraised tentacle 
directly at me. As I inhaled the pungent tobacco that 
tentacle impressed me with a feeling of actual uncanniness. 
It was broad daylight, and I was smoking in front of the 
window, yet to such an extent was I affected that it seemed 
to me that the tentacle was not only vibrating, which, 
owing to the peculiarity of its position, was quite within 
the range of probability, but actually moving, elongating— 
stretching forward, that is, farther toward me, and toward 
the tip of my nose. So impressed was I by this idea that I 
took the pipe out of my mouth and minutely examined 
the beast. Really, the delusion was excusable. So cun- 
ningly had the artist wrought that he succeeded in pro- 
ducing a creature which, such was its uncanniness, I could 
only hope had no original in nature. 

Replacing the pipe between my lips I took several whiffs. 
Never had smoking had such an effecton me before. Either 
the pipe, or the creature on it, exercised some singular 
fascination. I seemed, without an instant’s warning, to 
be passing into some land of dreams. I saw the beast, 
which was perched upon the bowl, writhe and twist. I saw 
it lift itself bodily from the meerschaum. 


306 


The Pipe 


IT 


“ FEELING better now?” 

I looked up. Joseph Tress was speaking. 

“What’s the matter? Have I been ill?” 

“You appear to have been in some kind of swoon.” 

Tress’s tone was peculiar, even a little dry. 

“Swoon! I never was guilty of such a thing in my life.” 

“Nor was I, until I smoked that pipe.” 

Isat up. The act of sitting up made me conscious of the 
fact that I had been lying down. Conscious, too, that I was 
feeling more than a little dazed. It seemed as though I 
was waking out of some strange, lethargic sleep—a kind 
of feeling which I have read of and heard about, but never 
before experienced. 

“Where am [?” 

“You’re on the couch in your own room. You were on 
the floor; but I thought it would be better to pick you 
up and place you on the couch—though no one performed 
the same kind office to me when I was on the floor.” 

Again Tress’s tone was distinctly dry. 

“ How came you here?” 

“ Ah, that’s the question.” He rubbed his chin—a habit 
of his which has annoyed me more than once before. “ Do 
you think you’re sufficiently recovered to enable you to 
understand a little simple explanation?”’ I stared at him, 
amazed. He went on stroking his chin. “The truth is 
that when I sent you the pipe I made a slight omission.” 

“ An omission?” 

“T omitted to advise you not to smoke it.” 

“ And why?” | 

“ Because—well, I’ve reason to believe the thing 1s 
drugged.” 

“ Drugged!” 

“Or poisoned.” 

“ Poisoned!” I was wide awake enough then, I jumped 
off the couch with a celerity which proved it. 


397 


English Mystery Stories 


“It is this way. I became its owner in rather a sin- 
gular manner.” He paused, as if for me to make a remark; 
but I was silent. “It is not often that I smoke a specimen, 
but, for some reason, I did smoke this. I commenced to 
smoke it, that is. How long I continued to smoke it is 
more than I can say. It had on me the same peculiar 
effect which it appears to have had on you. When I recov- 
ered consciousness I was lying on the floor.” 

“On the floor?” 

“On the floor. In about as uncomfortable a position as 
you can easily conceive. I was lying face downward, with 
my legs bent under me. I was never so surprised in my 
life as I was when I found myself where I was. At first 
I supposed that I had had a stroke. But by degrees it 
dawned upon me that I didn’t feel as though I had had a 
stroke.” Tress, by the way, has been an army surgeon. 
“TI was conscious of distinct nausea. Looking about, I 
saw the pipe. With me it had fallen on to the floor. I 
took it for granted, considering the delicacy of the carving, 
that the fall had broken it. But when I picked it up I found 
it quite uninjured. While I was examining it a thought 
flashed to my brain. Might it not be answerable for what 
had happened to me? Suppose, for instance, it was 
drugged? I had heard of such things. Besides, in my 
case were present all the symptoms of drug poisoning, 
though what drug had been used I couldn’t in the least 
conceive. I resolved that I would give the pipe another 
trial.” 

“On yourself? or on another party, meaning me?” 

“On myself, my dear Pugh—on myself! At that point 
of my investigations I had not begun to think of you. I 
lit up and had another smoke.” 

“With what result?” 

“Well, that depends on the standpoint from which you 
regard the thing. From one point of view the result was 
wholly satisfactory—I proved that the thing was drugged, 
and more.” 

“Did you have another fall?” 


308 


The Pipe 


“T did. And something else besides.” 

“On that account, I presume, you resoived to pass the 
treasure on to me?” 

“ Partly on that account, and partly on another.” 

“ On my word, I appreciate your generosity. You might 
have labeled the thing as poison.’ 

“Exactly. But then you must remember how often you 
have told me that you never smoke your specimens.” 

“That was no reason why you shouldn’t have given mea 
hint that the thing was more dangerous than dynamite.” 

“ That did occur to me afterwards. Therefore I called to 
supply the slight omission.” 

“ Slight omission, you call it! I wonder what you would 
have called it if you had found me dead.” 

“Tf I had known that you intended smoking it I should 
not have been at all surprised if I had.” 

“Really, Tress, I appreciate your kindness more and 
more! And where is this example of your splendid benevo- 
lence? Have you pocketed it, regretting your lapse into 
the unaccustomed paths of generosity? Or is it smashed 
to atoms?” 

“ Neither the one nor the other. You will find the pipe 
upon the table. I neither desire its restoration nor is it in 
any way injured. It is merely an expression of personal 
opinion when I say that I don’t believe that it could be 
injured. Of course, having discovered its deleterious prop- 
erties, you will not want to smoke it again. You will 
therefore be able to enjoy the consciousness of being the 
possessor of what I honestly believe to be the most re- 
markable pipe in existence. Good day, Pugh.” 

He was gone before I could say a word. I immediately 
concluded, from the precipitancy of his flight, that the pipe 
was injured. But when I subjected it to close examination 
I could discover no signs of damage. While I was still 
eying it with jealous scrutiny the door reopened, and Tress 
came in again. 

“ By the way, Pugh, there is one thing I might mention, 
especially as I know it won’t make any difference to you.” 


309 


English Mystery Stories 


“That depends on what it is. If you have changed your 
mind, and want the pipe back again, I tell you frankly that 
it won’t. In my opinion, a thing once given is given for 
good.” 

‘Quite so; I don’t want it back again. You may make 
your mind easy on that point. I merely wanted to tell you 
why I gave it you,” 

“You have told me that already.” 

“Only partly, my dear Pugh—only partly. You don’t 
suppose I should have given you such a pipe as that merely 
because it happened to be drugged? Scarcely! I gave it 
you because I discovered from indisputable evidence, and 
to my cost, that it was haunted.” 

“ Haunted?” 

“Yes, haunted. Good day.” 

He was gone again. I ran out of the room, and shouted 
after him down the stairs. He was already at the bottom 
of the flight. 

“Tress! Come back! What do you mean by talking 
such nonsense?” 

‘Of course it’s only nonsense. We know that that sort 
of thing always is nonsense. But if you should have reason 
to suppose that there is something in it besides nonsense, 
you may think it worth your while to make inquiries of me. 
But I won’t have that pipe back again in my possession 
on any terms—mind that!” 

The bang of the front door told me that he had gone 
out into the street. I let him go. I laughed to myself 
as I reéntered the room. Haunted! That was not a bad 
idea of his. I saw the whole position at a glance. The 
truth of the matter was that he did regret his generosity, 
and he was ready to go any lengths if he could only suc- 
ceed in cajoling me into restoring his gift. He was aware 
that I have views upon certain matters which are not 
wholly in accordance with those which are popularly sup- 
posed to be the views of the day, and particularly that on 
the question of what are commonly called supernatural 
visitations I have a standpoint of my own. Therefore, it 


310 


The Pipe 


was not a bad move on his part to try to make me be- 
lieve that about the pipe on which he knew I had set my 
heart there was something which could not be accounted 
for by ordinary laws. Yet, as his own sense would have 
told him it would do, if he had only allowed himself to 
reflect for a moment, the move failed. Because I am not 
yet so far gone as to suppose that a pipe, a thing of meer- 
schaum and of amber, in the sense in which I understand 
the word, could be haunted—a pipe, a mere pipe. 

“Hollo! I thought the creature’s legs were twined 
right round the bowl!” 

I was holding the pipe in my hand, fine it with the 
affectionate eyes with which a connoisseur does regard a 
curio, when I was induced to make this exclamation. I 
was certainly under the impression that, when I first took 
the pipe out of the box, two, if not three of the feelers 
had been twined about the bowl—twined tightly, so that 
you could not see daylight between them and it. Now 
they were almost entirely detached, only the tips touching 
the meerschaum, and those particular feelers were gathered 
up as though the creature were in the act of taking a spring. 
Of course I was under a misapprehension: the feelers 
couldn’t have been twined; a moment before I should have 
been ready to bet a thousand to one that they were. Still, 
one does make mistakes, and very egregious mistakes, 
at times. At the same time, I confess that when I saw that 
dreadful-looking animal poised on the extreme edge of 
the bowl, for all the world as though it were just going 
to spring at me, I was a little startled. I remembered that 
when I was smoking the pipe I did think I saw the uplifted 
tentacle moving, as though it were reaching out to me. 
And I had a clear recollection that just as I had been 
sinking into that strange state of unconsciousness, I had 
been under the impression that the creature was writhing 
and twisting, as though it had suddenly become instinct 
with life. Under the circumstances, these reflections were 
not pleasant. I wished Tress had not talked that non- 
sense about the thing being haunted. It was surely suffi- 


311 


English Mystery Stories 


cient to know that it was drugged and poisonous, without 
anything else. 

I replaced it in the sandalwood box. I locked the box 
in a cabinet. Quite apart from the question as to whether 
that pipe was or was not haunted, I know it haunted me. 
It was with me in a figurative—which was worse than 
actual—sense all the day. Still worse, it was with me all 
the night. It was with me in my dreams. Such dreams! 
Possibly I had not yet wholly recovered from the effects 
of that insidious drug, but, whether or no, it was very 
wrong of Tress to set my thoughts into such a channel. 
He knows that I am of a highly imaginative tempera- 
ment, and that it is easier to get morbid thoughts into 
my mind than to get them out again. Before that night 
was through I wished very heartily that I had never seen 
the pipe! I woke from one nightmare to fall into another. 
One dreadful dream was with me all the time—of a hide- 
ous, green reptile which advanced toward me out of some 
awful darkness, slowly, inch by inch, until it clutched me 
round the neck, and, gluing its lips to mine, sucked the 
life’s blood out of my veins as it embraced me with a 
slimy kiss. Such dreams are not restful. I woke anything 
but refreshed when the morning came. And when I got 
up and dressed I felt that, on the whole, it would perhaps 
have been better if I never had gone to bed. My nerves 
were unstrung, and I had that generally tremulous feeling 
which is, I believe, an inseparable companion of the more 
advanced stages of dipsomania. I ate no breakfast. I am 
no breakfast eater as a rule, but that morning I ate ab- 
solutely nothing. 

“Tf this sort of thing is to continue, I will let Tress have 
his pipe again. He may have the laugh of me, but anything 
is better than this.” 

It was with almost funereal forebodings that I went to 
the cabinet in which I had placed the sandalwood box. But 
when I opened it my feelings of gloom partially vanished. 
Of what phantasies had I been guilty! It must have been 
an entire delusion on my part to have supposed that those 


312 


The Pipe 


tentacula had ever been twined about the bowl. -The crea- 
ture was in exactly the same position in which I had left 
it the day before—as, of course, I knew it would be— 
poised, as if about to spring. I was telling myself how 
foolish I had been to allow myself to dwell for a moment 
on Tress’s words, when Martin Brasher was shown in. 

Brasher is an old friend of mine. We have a common 
ground—ghosts. Only we approach them from different 
points of view. He takes the scientific—psychological— 
inquiry side. He is always anxious to hear of a ghost, 
so that he may have an opportunity of “ showing it up.” 

“T’ve something in your line here,’ I observed, as he 
came in. 

“In my line? How so? I’m not pipe mad.” 

“No; but you’re ghost mad. And this is a haunted pipe.’ 

‘“‘A haunted pipe! I think you’re rather more mad about 
ghosts, my dear Pugh, than I am.” 

Then I told him all about it. He was deeply interested, 
especially when I told him that the pipe was drugged. 
But when I repeated Tress’s words about its being haunted, 
and mentioned my own delusion about the creature mov- 
ing, he took a more serious view of the case than I had 
expected he would do. 

“T propose that we act on Tress’s suggestion, and go and 
make inquiries of him.” 

“ But you don’t really think that there is anything in it?” 

“On these subjects I never allow myself to think at all. 
There are Tress’s words, and there is your story. It is 
agreed on all hands that the pipe has peculiar properties. 
It seems to me that there is a sufficient case here to merit 
inquiry.” 

He persuaded me. I went with him. The pipe, in the 
sandalwood box, went too. Tress received us with a grin 
—a grin which was accentuated when I placed the sandal- 
wood box on the table. 

“You understand,” he said, “that a gift is a gift. On 
no terms will I consent to receive that pipe back in my 
possession.” 


> 


313 


English Mystery Stories 


I was rather nettled by his tone. 

“You need be under no alarm. I have no intention of 
suggesting anything of the kind.” 

‘Our business here,’ began Brasher—I must own that 
his manner is a little ponderous—“ is of a scientific, I may 
say also, and at the same time, of a judicial nature. Our 
object is the Pursuit of Truth and the Advancement of 
Inquiry.” 

“Have you been trying another smoke?” inquired Tress, 
nodding his head toward me. 

Before I had time to answer, Brasher went droning on: 

“Our friend here tells me that you say this pipe is 
haunted.” 

“T say it is haunted because it is haunted.” 

I looked at Tress. I half suspected that he was poking 
fun at us. But he appeared to be serious enough. 

“Tn these matters,” remarked Brasher, as though he were 
giving utterance to a new and important truth, “there is 
a scientific and nonscientific method of inquiry. The scien- 
tific method is to begin at the beginning. May I ask how 
this pipe came into your possession? ” 

Tress paused before he answered. 

“You may ask.” He paused again. “Oh, you certainly 
may ask. But it doesn’t follow that I shall tell you.” 

“Surely your object, like ours, can be but the Spreading 
About of the Truth?” 

“T don’t see it at all. It is possible to imagine a case 
in which the spreading about of the truth might make me 
look a little awkward.” 

“Indeed!” Brasher pursed up his lips. “ Your words 
would almost lead one to suppose that there was something 
about your method of acquiring the pipe which you have 
good and weighty reasons for concealing.” 

“TI don’t know why I should conceal the thing from 
you. I don’t suppose either of you is any better than 
I am. I don’t mind telling you how I got the pipe. I 
stole it.” 

Stole itl” 


314 


The Pipe 


Brasher seemed both amazed and shocked. But I, who 
had previous experience of Tress’s methods of adding to 
his collection, was not at all surprised. Some of the pipes 
which he calls his, if only the whole truth about them were 
publicly known, would send him to jail. 

“That’s nothing!” he continued. “ All collectors steal! 
The eighth commandment was not intended to apply to 
them. Why, Pugh there has ‘conveyed’ three fourths of - 
the pipes which he flatters himself are his.” 

I was so dumfoundered by the charge that it took my 
breath away. I sat in astounded silence. Tress went rav- 
ing on: 

‘TI was so shy of this particular pipe when I had obtained 
it, that I put it away for quite three months. When I took 
it out to have a look at it something about the thing so 
tickled me that I resolved to smoke it. Owing to peculiar 
circumstances attending the manner in which the thing 
came into my possession, and on which I need not dwell— 
you don’t like to dwell on those sort of things, do you, 
Pugh?—I knew really nothing about the pipe. As was 
the case with Pugh, one peculiarity I learned from actual 
experience. It was also from actual experience that I 
learned that the thing was—well, I said haunted, but you 
may use any other word you like.” 

“Tell us, as briefly as possible, what it was you really 
did discover.” 

“Take the pipe out of the box!” Brasher took the pipe 
out of the box and held it in his hand. ‘“ You see that 
creature on it. Well, when I first had it it was underneath 
the pipe.” 

“How do you mean that it was underneath the pipe? ” 

“It was bunched together underneath the stem, just at 
the end of the mouthpiece, in the same way in which a fly 
might be suspended from the ceiling. When I began to 
smoke the pipe I saw the creature move.” _ 

“But I thought that unconsciousness immediately fol- 
lowed.” 

“Tt did follow, but not before I saw that the thing was 


315 


English Mystery Stories 


moving. It was because I thought that I had been, in a 
way, a victim of delirium that I tried the second smoke. 
Suspecting that the thing was drugged I swallowed what 
I believed would prove a powerful antidote. It enabled me 
to resist the influence of the narcotic much longer than be- 
fore, and while I still retained my senses I saw the creature 
crawl along under the stem and over the bowl. It was 
that sight, I believe, as much as anything else, which sent 
me silly. When I came to I then and there decided to pre- 
sent the pipe to Pugh. There is one more thing I would 
remark. When the pipe left me the creature’s legs were 
twined about the bowl. Now they are withdrawn. Pos- 
sibly you, Pugh, are able to cap my story with a little one 
which is all your own.” 

“T certainly did imagine that I saw the creature move. 
But I supposed that while I was under the influence of the 
drug imagination had played me a trick.” 

“ Not a bit of it! Depend upon it, the beast is bewitched. 
Even to my eye it looks as though it were, and to a trained 
eye like yours, Pugh! You’ve been looking for the devil 
a long time, and you’ve got him at last.” 

“I—I wish you wouldn’t make those remarks, Tress. 
They jar on me.” 

“T confess,” interpolated Brasher—I noticed that he had 
put the pipe down on the table as though he were tired of 
holding it—‘‘that, to my thinking, such remarks are not 
appropriate. At the same time what you have told us is, 
I am bound to allow, a little curious. But of course what 
I require is ocular demonstration. I haven’t seen the move- 
ment myself.” 

“ No, but you very soon will do if you care to have a 
pull at the pipe on your own account. Do, Brasher, to 
oblige me! There’s a dear!” 

“It appears, then, that the movement is only observable 
when the pipe is smoked. We have at least arrived at 
step No. 1.” 

“Here’s a match, Brasher! Light up, and we shall have 
arrived at step No. 2.” 

316 


The Pipe 


Tress lit a match and held it out to Brasher. Brasher 
retreated from its neighborhood. 

“Thank you, Mr. Tress, I am no smoker, as you are 
aware. And I have no desire to acquire the art of smoking 
by means of a poisoned pipe.” 

Tress laughed. He blew out the match and threw it into 
the grate. 

“Then I tell you what I’ll do—Tll have up Bob.” 

“ Bob—why Bob?” 

‘“‘ Bob ”—whose real name was Robert Haines, though I 
should think he must have forgotten the fact, so seldom was 
he addressed by it—was Tress’s servant. He had been an 
old soldier, and had accompanied his master when he left 
the service. He was as depraved a character as Tress him- 
self. JI am not sure even that he was not worse than his 
master. J shall never forget how he once behaved toward 
myself. He actually had the assurance to accuse me of 
attempting to steal the Wardour Street relic which Tress 
fondly deludes himself was once the property of Sir Walter 
Raleigh. The truth is that I had slipped it with my hand- 
kerchief into my pocket in a fit of absence of mind. A man 
who could accuse me of such a thing would be guilty of 
anything. I was therefore quite at one with Brasher when 
he asked what Bob could possibly be wanted for. Tress 
explained. 

“Tl get him to smoke the pipe,” he said. 

Brasher and I exchanged glances, but we refrained from 
speech. 

“Tt won’t do him any harm,” said Tress. 

“What—not a poisoned pipe?” asked Brasher. 

“It’s not poisoned—it’s only drugged.” 

“Only drugged!” 

“ Nothing hurts Bob. He is like an ostrich. He has 
digestive organs which are peculiarly his own. It will only 
serve him as it served me—and Pugh—it will knock him 
over. It is all done in the Pursuit of Truth and for the 
Advancement of Inquiry.” 

I could see that Brasher did not altogether like the tone 


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English Mystery Stories 


in which Tress repeated his words. As for me, it was not 
to be supposed that I should put myself out in a matter which 
in no way concerned me. If Tress chose to poison the man, 
it was his affair, not mine. He went to the door and 
shouted : 

“Bob! Come here, you scoundrel!” 

That is the way in which he speaks to him. No really 
decent servant would stand it. I shouldn’t care to address 
Nalder, my servant, in such a way. He would give me 
notice on the spot. Bob came in. He is a great hulking 
fellow who is always on the grin. Tress had a decanter of 
brandy in his hand. He filled a tumbler with the neat spirit. 

“ Bob, what would you say to a glassful of brandy—the 
real thing—my boy? a 

“Thank you, sir.’ 

“ And what would you say to a pull at a pipe shen the 
brandy is drunk!” 

“A pipe?” The fellow is sharp enough when he likes. 
I saw him look at the pipe upon the table, and then at us, 
and then a gleam of intelligence came into his eyes. “I'd 
do it for a dollar, sir.” 

“A dollar, you thief?” 

“T meant ten shillings, sir.” 

“Ten shillings, you brazen vagabond?” 

“T should have said a pound.” 

“ A pound! Was ever the like of that! Dol understand 
you to ask a pound for taking a pull at your master’s pipe?” 

“T’m thinking that I’ll have to make it two.” 

“The deuce you are! Here, Pugh, lend me a pound.” 

“T’m afraid I’ve left my purse behind.” 

“Then lend me ten shillings—Ananias! ” 

“I doubt if I have more than five.” 

“ Then give me the five. And, Brasher, lend me the other 
fifteen.” 

Brasher lent him the fifteen. I doubt if we shall either 
of us ever see our money again. He handed the pound to 
Bob. 

“ Here’s the brandy—drink it up!” Bob drank it with- 


318 


The Pipe 


out a word, draining the glass of every drop. “ And here’s 
the pipe.” 

“Ts it poisoned, sir?” 

“ Poisoned, you villain! What do you mean?” 

“Tt isn’t the first time I’ve seen your tricks, sir—is it 
now? And you’re not the one to give a pound for nothing 
at all. If it kills me you'll send my body to my mother— 
she’d like to know that I was dead.” 

“Send your body to your grandmother! You idiot, sit 
down and smoke!” 

Bob sat down. Tress had filled the pipe, and handed it, 
with a lighted match, to Bob. The fellow declined the 
match. He handled the pipe very gingerly, turning it over 
and over, eying it with all his eyes. 3 

“ Thank you, sir—I’ll light up myself if it’s the same to 
you. I carry matches of my own. It’s a beautiful pipe, 
entirely. I never see the like of it for ugliness. And what’s 
the slimy-looking varmint that looks as though it would like 
to have my life? Is it living, or is it dead?” 

“Come, we don’t want to sit here all day, my man!” 

“Well, sir, the look of this here pipe has quite upset my 
stomach. I’d like another drop of liquor, if it’s the same 
to you.” 

“Another drop! Why, you’ve had a tumblerful already! 
Here’s another tumblerful to put on top of that. You won’t 
want the pipe to kill you—you’'ll be killed before you get 
10 4ts: 

“And isn’t it better to die a natural death? ” 

Bob emptied the second tumbler of brandy as though it 
were water. I believe he would empty a hogshead without 
turning a hair! Then he gave another iook at the pipe. 
Then, taking a match from his waistcoat pocket, he drew 
a long breath, as though he were resigning himself to fate. 
Striking the match on the seat of his trousers, while, shaded 
by his hand, the flame was gathering strength, he looked at 
each of us in turn. When he looked at Tress I distinctly 
saw him wink his eye. What my feelings would have been 
if a servant of mine had winked his eye at me I am unable 


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to imagine! The match was applied to the tobacco, a puff 
of smoke came through his lips—the pipe was alight! 

During this process of lighting the pipe we had sat—I 
do not wish to use exaggerated language, but we had sat 
and watched that alcoholic scamp’s proceedings as though 
Wwe were witnessing an action which would leave its mark 
upon the age. When we saw the pipe was lighted we gave 
a simultaneous start. Brasher put his hands under his coat 
tails and gave a kind of hop. I raised myself a good six 
inches from my chair, and Tress rubbed his palms together 
with a chuckle. Bob alone was calm. 

“ Now,” cried Tress, “ you’ll see the devil moving.” 

Bob took the pipe from between his lips. 

“See what?” he said. 

“Bob, you rascal, put that pipe back into your mouth, 
and smoke it for your life! ” 

Bob was eying the pipe askance. 

“T dare say, but what I want to know is whether this 
here varmint’s dead or whether he isn’t. I don’t want to 
have him flying at my nose—and he looks vicious enough 
for anything.” 

“Give me back that pound, you thief, and get out of my 
house, and bundle.” 

“T ain’t going to give you back no pound.” 

“Then smoke that pipe!” 

“T am smoking it, ain’t I?” 

With the utmost deliberation Bob returned the pipe to 
his mouth. He emitted another whiff or two of smoke. 

“ Now—now!” cried Tress, all excitement, and wagging 
his hand in the air. 

We gathered round. As we did so Bob again withdrew 
the pipe. 

“What is the meaning of all this here? I ain’t going 
to have you playing none of your larks on me. I know 
there’s something up, but I ain’t going to throw my life 
away for twenty shillings—not quite I ain’t.” 

. Tress, whose temper is not at any time one of the best, 
was seized with quite a spasm of rage. 


320 


The Pipe 


“ As I live, my lad, if you try to cheat me by taking 
that pipe from between your lips until I tell you, you 
leave this room that instant, never again to be a servant 
of mine.” 

I presume the fellow knew from long experience when 
his master meant what he said, and when he didn’t. With- 
out an attempt at remonstrance he replaced the pipe. He 
continued stolidly to puff away. Tress caught me by the 
arm. 

“What did I tell you? There—there! That tentacle is 
moving.” 

The uplifted tentacle was moving. It was doing what I 
had seen it do, as I supposed, in my distorted imagination 
—it was reaching forward. Undoubtedly Bob saw what it 
was doing; but, whether in obedience to his master’s com- 
mands, or whether because the drug was already beginning 
to take effect, he made no movement to withdraw the pipe. 
He watched the slowly advancing tentacle, coming closer 
and closer toward his nose, with an expression of such in- 
tense horror on his countenance that it became quite shock- 
ing. Farther and farther the creature reached forward, 
until on a sudden, with a sort of jerk, the movement as- 
sumed a downward direction, and the tentacle was slowly 
lowered until the tip rested on the stem of the pipe. Fora 
moment the creature remained motionless. I was quieting 
my nerves with the reflection that this thing was but some 
trick of the carver’s art, and that what we had seen we had: 
seen in a sort of nightmare, when the whole hideous rep- 
tile was seized with what seemed to be a fit of convulsive 
shuddering. It seemed to be in agony. It trembled so vio- 
lently that I expected to see it loosen its hold of the stem 
and fall to the ground. I was sufficiently master of myself 
to steal a glance at Bob. We had had an inkling of what 
might happen. He was wholly unprepared. As he saw 
that dreadful, human-looking creature, coming to life, as 
it seemed, within an inch or two of his nose, his eyes 
dilated to twice their usual size. I hoped, for his sake, 
that unconsciousness would supervene, through the action 


321 


English Mystery Stories 


of the drug, before through sheer fright his senses left him. 
Perhaps mechanically he puffed steadily on. 

The creature’s shuddering became more violent. It ap- 
peared to swell before our eyes. Then, just as suddenly 
as it began, the shuddering ceased. There was another in- 
stant of quiescence. Then the creature began to crawl 
along the stem of the pipe! It moved with marvelous cau- 
tion, the merest fraction of an inch at a time. But still 
it moved! Our eyes were riveted on it with a fascination 
which was absolutely nauseous. I am unpleasantly affected 
even as I think of it now. My dreams of the night before 
had been nothing to this. 

Slowly, slowly, it went, nearer and nearer to the smoker’s — 
nose. Its mode of progression was in the highest degree 
unsightly. It glided, never, so far as I could see, removing 
its tentacles from the stem of the pipe. It slipped its hind- 
most feelers onward until they came up to those which were 
in advance. Then, in their turn, it advanced those which 
were in front. It seemed, too, to move with the utmost 
labor, shuddering as though it were in pain. 

We were all, for our parts, speechless. I was momen- 
tarily hoping that the drug would take effect on Bob. 
Either his constitution enabled him to offer a strong: re- 
sistance to narcotics, or else the large quantity of neat spirit 
which he had drunk acted—as Tress had malevolently in- 
tended that it should—as an antidote. It seemed to me 
that he would never succumb. On went the creature—on, 
and on, in its infinitesimal progression. I was spellbound. 
I would have given the world to scream, to have been able 
to utter a sound. I could do nothing else but watch. 

The creature had reached the end of the stem. It had 
gained the amber mouthpiece. It was within an inch of 
the smoker’s nose. Still on it went. It seemed to move 
with greater freedom on the amber. It increased its rate 
of progress. It was actually touching the foremost feature 
on the smoker’s countenance. I expected to see it grip the 
wretched Bob, when it began to oscillate from side to side. 
Its oscillations increased in violence. It fell to the floor, 

322 


The Pipe 


That same instant the narcotic prevailed. Bob slipped side- 
ways from the chair, the pipe still held tightly between his 
rigid jaws. 

We were silent. There lay Bob. Close beside him lay 
the creature. A few more inches to the left, and he would 
have fallen on and squashed it flat. It had fallen on its 
back. Its feelers were extended upward. They were 
writhing and twisting and turning in the air. | 

Tress was the first to speak. 

“T think a little brandy won’t be amiss.” Emptying the 
remainder of the brandy into a glass, he swallowed it at 
a draught. “ Now for a closer examination of our friend.” 
Taking a pair of tongs from the grate he nipped the crea- 
ture between them. He deposited it upon the table. “I 
rather fancy that this is a case for dissection.” 

He took a penknife from his waistcoat pocket. Opening 
the large blade, he thrust its point into the object on the 
table. Little or no resistance seemed to be offered to the 
passage of the blade, but as it was inserted the tentacula 
simultaneously began to writhe and twist. Tress withdrew 
the knife. 

“T thought so!” He held the blade out for our inspec- 
tion. The point was covered with some viscid-looking mat- 
ter. “ That’s blood! The thing’s alive!” 

“ Alive!” 

“ Alive! That’s the secret of the whole performance! ” 

6e But” 

“ But me no buts, my Pugh! The mystery’s exploded! 
One more ghost is lost to the world! The person from 
whom I obtained that pipe was an Indian juggler—up to 
many tricks of the trade. He, or some one for him, got 
hold of this sweet thing in reptiles—and a sweeter thing 
would, I imagine, be hard to find—and covered it with 
some preparation of, possibly, gum arabic. He allowed this 
to harden. Then he stuck the thing—still living, for those 
sort of gentry are hard to kill—to the pipe. The conse- 
quence was that when anyone lit up, the warmth was 
communicated to the adhesive agent—again some prepara- 


323 


English Mystery Stories 


tion of gum, no doubt—it moistened it, and the creature, 
with infinite difficulty, was able to move. But I am open to 
lay odds with any gentleman of sporting tastes that tis 
time the creature’s traveling days are done. It has given 
me rather a larger taste of the horrors than is good for my 
digestion.” 

With the aid of the tongs he removed the creature from 
the table. He placed it on the hearth. Before Brasher or 
I had a notion of what it was he intended to do he covered 
it with a heavy marble paper weight. Then he stood upon 
the weight, and between the marble and the hearth he 
ground the creature flat. 

While the execution was still proceeding, Bob sat up 
upon the floor. 

“ Hollo! ” he asked, “‘ what’s happened? ” 

“We've emptied the bottle, Bob,” said Tress. “ But 
there’s another where that came from. Perhaps you could 
drink another tumblerful, my boy?” 

Bob drank it! 

FOOTNOTE 

“Those gentry are hard to kill.” Here is fact, not fantasy. 
Lizard yarns no less sensational than this Mystery Story can be 
found between the covers of solemn, zodlogical textbooks. 

Reptiles, indeed, are far from finicky in the matters of air, space, 
and especially warmth. Frogs and other such sluggish-blooded 
creatures have lived after being frozen fast in ice. Their blood is 
little warmer than air or water, enjoying no extra casing of fur or 
feathers. 

Air and food seem held in light esteem by lizards. Their blood 
need not be highly oxygenated; it nourishes just as well when im- 
pure. In temperate climes lizards lie torpid and buried all winter; 
some species of the tropic deserts sleep peacefully all summer. 
Their anatomy includes no means for the continuous introduction 


and expulsion of air; reptilian lungs are little more than closed sacs, 
without cell structure. 

If any further zodlogical fact were needed to verify the dénoue- 
ment of ‘‘The Pipe,’’ it might be the general statement that lizards 
are abnormal brutes anyhow. Consider the chameleons of un- 
settled hue. And what is one to think of an animal which, when 
captured by the tail, is able to make its escape by willfully shuffling 
off that appendage ?—EpiTor. 


324 


The Puzzle 


The Puzzle 
I 


PuGcH came into my room holding something wrapped 
in a piece of brown paper. 

“Tress, I have brought you something on which you 
may exercise your ingenuity.” He began, with exasperat- 
ing deliberation, to untie the string which bound his par- 
cel; he is one of those persons who would not cut a knot 
to save their lives. The process occupied him the better 
part of a quarter of an hour. Then he held out the con- 
tents of the paper. 

“What do you think of that?” he asked. I thought 
nothing of it, and I told him so. “I was prepared for 
that confession. I have noticed, Tress, that you gener- 
ally do think nothing of an article which really deserves 
the attention of a truly thoughtful mind. Possibly, as you 
think so little of it, you will be able to solve the puzzle.” 

I took what he held out to me. It was an oblong box, 
perhaps seven inches long by three inches broad. 

“ Where’s the puzzle?” I asked. 

“Tf you will examine the lid of the box, you will see.” 

I turned it over and over; it was difficult to see which 
was the lid. Then I perceived that on one side were 
printed these words: 


‘* PUZZLE: TO OPEN THE BOX” 


The words were so faintly printed that it was not sur- 
prising that I had not noticed them at first. Pugh ex- 
plained. 

“T observed that box on a tray outside a second-hand 
furniture shop. It struck my eye. I took it up. I ex- 
amined it. I inquired of the proprietor of the shop in 
what the puzzle lay. He replied that that was more than 
he could tell me. He himself had made several attempts 


325 


English Mystery Stories 


to open the box, and all of them had failed. I purchased 
it. I took it home. I have tried, and I have failed. I 
am aware, Tress, of how you pride yourself upon your in- 
genuity. I cannot doubt that, if you try, you will not 
ait” 

While Pugh was prosing, I was examining the box. It 
was at least well made. It weighed certainly under two 
ounces. I struck it with my knuckles; it sounded hollow. 
There was no hinge; nothing of any kind to show that it 
ever had been opened, or, for the matter of that, that it 
ever could be opened. The more I examined the thing, 
the more it whetted my curiosity. That it could be opened, 
and in some ingenious manner, I made no doubt—but 
how? 3 

The box was not anew one. Ata rough guess I should 
say that it had been a box for a good half century; there 
were certain signs of age about it which could not escape 
a practiced eye. Had it remained unopened all that time? 
When opened, what would be found inside? It sounded 
hollow; probably nothing at all—who could tell? 

It was formed of small pieces of inlaid wood. Several 
woods had been used; some of them were strange to me. 
They were of different colors; it was pretty obvious that 
they must all of them have been hard woods. The pieces 
were of various shapes—hexagonal, octagonal, triangular, 
square, oblong, and even circular. The process of inlay- 
ing them had been beautifully done. So nicely had the 
parts been joined that the lines of meeting were difficult 
to discover with the naked eye; they had been joined solid, 
so to speak. It was an excellent example of marquetry. 
I had been over-hasty in my deprecation; I owed as much 
to Pugh. 

“This box of yours is better worth looking at than I 
first supposed. Is it to be sold?” 

“No, it is not to be sold. Nor ”—he “ fixed” me with 
his spectacles—“ is it to be given away. I have brought 
it to you for the simple purpose of ascertaining if you have 
ingenuity enough to open it.” 

326 


The Puzzle 


“I will engage to open it in two seconds—with a 
hammer.” 

“T dare say. J will open it with a hammer. The thing 
is to open it without.” 

“Let me see.” I began, with the aid of a microscope, 
to examine the box more closely. “I will give you one 
piece of information, Pugh. Unless I am mistaken, the 
secret lies in one of these little pieces of inlaid wood. You 
push it, or you press it, or something, and the whole affair 
flies open.” 

“Such was my own first conviction. J am not so sure 
of it now. I have pressed every separate piece of wood; 
I have tried to move each piece in every direction. No 
result has followed. My theory was a hidden spring.” 

“ But there must be a hidden spring of some sort, un- 
less you are to open it by a mere exercise of force. I 
suppose the box is empty.” 

“T thought it was at first, but now I am not so sure 
of that either. It all depends on the position in which 
you hold it. Hold it in this position—like this—close to 
your ear. Have you a small hammer?” I took a small 
hammer. “Tap it softly, with the hammer. Don’t you 
notice a sort of reverberation within? ” 

Pugh was right, there certainly was something within ; 
something which seemed to echo back my tapping, almost 
as if it were a living thing. I mentioned this to Pugh. 

“But you don’t think that there is something alive in- 
side the box? There can’t be. The box must be air- 
tight, probably as much air-tight as an exhausted receiver.” 

“How do we know that? How can we tell that no 
minute interstices have been left for the express purpose 
of ventilation?” I continued tapping with the hammer. I 
noticed one peculiarity, that it was only when I held the 
box in a particular position, and tapped at a certain spot, 
there came the answering taps from within. “TI tell you 
what it is, Pugh, what I hear is the reverberation of some 
machinery.” 

“Do you think so?” 

; 327 


English Mystery Stories 


*T’m sure of it.” 

“Give the box to me.” Pugh put the box to his ear. 
He tapped. “It sounds to me like the echoing tick, tick of 
some great beetle; like the sort of noise which a death- 
watch makes, you know.” 

Trust Pugh to find a remarkable explanation for a sim- 
ple fact; if the explanation leans toward the supernatural, 
so much the more satisfactory to Pugh. I knew better. 

“The sound which you hear is merely the throbbing or 
the trembling of the mechanism with which it is intended 
that the box should be opened. The mechanism is placed 
just where you are tapping it with the hammer. Every 
tap causes it to jar.” ; 

“Tt sounds to me like the ticking of a deathwatch. 
However, on such subjects, Tress, I know what you are.” 

“My dear Pugh, give it an extra hard tap, and you 
will see.” 

He gave it an extra hard tap. The moment he had done 
so, he started. 

“T’ve done it now.” 

“What have you done?” 

“Broken something, I fancy.” He listened intently, 
with his ear to the box. ‘“ No—it seems all right. And 
yet I could have sworn I had damaged something; I heard 
itssmash,?:- 

“Give me the box.” He gave it me. In my turn, I 
listened. I shook the box. Pugh must have been mis- 
taken. Nothing rattled; there was not a sound; the box 
was as empty as before. I gave a smart tap with the 
hammer, as Pugh had done. Then there certainly was a 
curious sound. To my ear, it sounded like the smash- 
ing of glass. “I wonder if there is anything fragile in- 
side your precious puzzle, Pugh, and, if so, if we are 
shivering it by degrees?” 


328 


The Puzzle 


II 


“ Wuat is that noise?” 

I lay in bed in that curious condition which is between 
sleep and waking. When, at last, | knew that I was awake, 
I asked myself what it was that had woke me. Suddenly 
I became conscious that something was making itself 
audible in the silence of the night. For some seconds I 
lay and listened. Then I sat up in bed. 

“What is that noise?” 

It was like the tick, tick of some large and unusually 
clear-toned clock. It might have been a clock, had it 
not been that the sound was varied, every half dozen ticks. 
or so, by a sort of stifled screech, such as might have been 
uttered by some small creature in an extremity of an- 
guish. I got out of bed; it was ridiculous to think of 
sleep during the continuation of that uncanny shrieking. 
I struck a light. The sound seemed to come from the 
neighborhood of my dressing-table. I went to the dressing- 
table, the lighted match in my hand, and, as I did so, my 
eyes fell on Pugh’s mysterious box. That same instant 
there issued, from the bowels of the box, a more uncom- 
fortable screech than any I had previously heard. It took 
me so completely by surprise that I let the match fall from 
my hand to the floor. The room was in darkness. I stood, 
I will not say trembling, listening—considering their vol- 
ume—to the eeriest shrieks I ever heard. All at once they 
ceased. Then came the tick, tick, tick again. I struck 
another match and lit the gas. 

Pugh had left his puzzle box behind him. We had done 
all we could, together, to solve the puzzle. He had left it 
behind to see what I could do with it alone. So much had 
it engrossed my attention that I had even brought it into 
my bedroom, in order that I might, before retiring to rest, 
make a final attempt at the solution of the mystery. Now 
what possessed the thing? 

As I stood, and looked, and listened, one thing began 


329 


English Mystery Stories 


to be clear to me, that some sort of machinery had been 
set in motion inside the box. How it had been set in 
motion was another matter. But the box had been sub- 
jected to so much handling, to such pressing and such 
hammering, that it was not strange if, after all, Pugh or 
I had unconsciously hit upon the spring which set the 
whole thing going. Possibly the mechanism had got so 
rusty that it had refused to act at once. It had hung fire, 
and only after some hours had something or other set the 
imprisoned motive power free. 

But what about the screeching? Could there be some 
living creature concealed within the box? Was I listening 
to the cries of some small animal in agony ? Momentary 
reflection suggested that the explanation of the one thing 
was the explanation of the other. Rust!—there was the 
mystery. The same rust which had prevented the mech- 
anism from acting at once was causing the screeching 
now. The uncanny sounds were caused by nothing more 
nor less than the want of a drop or two of oil. Such 
an explanation would not have satisfied Pugh, it satis- 
fied me. 

Picking up the box, I placed it to my ear. 

“T wonder how long this little performance is going to 
continue. And what is going to happen when it is good 
enough to cease? I hope ”—an uncomfortable thought oc- 
curred to me—“I hope Pugh hasn’t picked up some 
pleasant little novelty in the way of an infernal machine. 
It would be a first-rate joke if he and I had been en- 
deavoring to solve the puzzle of how to set it going.” 

I don’t mind owning that as this reflection crossed my 
mind I replaced Pugh’s puzzle on the dressing-table. The 
idea did not commend itself to me at all. The box evi- 
dently contained some curious mechanism. It might be 
more curious than comfortable. Possibly some agreeable 
little device in clockwork. The tick, tick, tick suggested 
clockwork which had been planned to go a certain time, 
and then—then, for all I knew, ignite an explosive, and— 
blow up. It would be a charming solution to the puzzle 


330 


The Puzzle 


if it were to explode while I stood there, in my night- 
shirt, looking on. It is true that the box weighed very 
little. Probably, as I have said, the whole affair would 
not have turned the scale at a couple of ounces. But 
then its very lightness might have been part of the in- 
genious inventor’s little game. There are explosives with 
which one can work a very satisfactory amount of damage 
with considerably less than a couple of ounces. 

While I was hesitating—I own it!—whether I had not 
better immerse Pugh’s puzzle in a can of water, or throw 
it out of the window, or call down Bob with a request 
to at once remove it to his apartment, both the tick, tick, 
tick, and the screeching ceased, and all within the box was 
still. If it was going to explode, it was now or never. 
Instinctively I moved in the direction of the door. 

I waited with a certain sense of anxiety. I waited in 
vain. Nothing happened, not even a renewal of the sound. 

“T wish Pugh had kept his precious puzzle at home. 
This sort of thing tries one’s nerves.” 

When I thought that I perceived that nothing seemed 
likely to happen, I returned to the neighborhood of the 
table. I looked at the box askance. I took it up gingerly. 
Something might go off at any moment for all I knew. 
It would be too much of a joke if Pugh’s precious puzzle 
exploded in my hand. I shook it doubtfully; nothing 
rattled. I held it to my ear. There was not a sound. 
What had taken place? Had the clockwork run down, 
and was the machine arranged with such a diabolical in- 
genuity that a certain interval was required, after the clock- 
work had run down, before an explosion could occur? Or 
had rust caused the mechanism to again hang fire? 

“After making all that commotion the thing might at 
least come open.” I banged the box viciously against the 
corner of the table. I felt that I would almost rather that 
an explosion should take place than that nothing should 
occur. One does not care to be disturbed from one’s 
sound slumber in the small hours of the morning for a 
trifle. 


331 


English Mystery Stories 


“T’ve half a mind to get a hammer, and try, as they, 
say in the cookery books, another way.” 

Unfortunately I had promised Pugh to abstain from 
using force. I might have shivered the box open with my 
hammer, and then explained that it had fallen, or got trod 
upon, or sat upon, or something, and so got shattered, 
only I was afraid that Pugh would not believe me. The 
man is himself such an untruthful man that he is in a 
chronic state of suspicion about the truthfulness of others. 

“Well, if you’re not going to blow up, or open, or some- 
thing, I'll say good night.” 

I gave the box a final rap with my knuckles and a final 
shake, replaced it on the table, put out the gas, and re- 
turned to bed. 7 

I was just sinking again into slumber, when that box 
began again. It was true that Pugh had purchased the 
puzzle, but it was evident that the whole enjoyment of the 
purchase was destined to be mine. It was useless to think 
of sleep while that performance was going on. I sat up 
in bed once more. 

“Tt strikes me that the puzzle consists in finding out 
how it is possible to go to sleep with Pugh’s purchase in 
your bedroom. This is far better than the old-fashioned 
prescription of cats on the tiles.” 

It struck me the noise was distinctly louder than before; 
this applied both to the tick, tick, tick, and the screeching. 

“ Possibly,” I told myself, as I relighted the gas, “the 
explosion is to come off this time.” 

I turned to look at the box. There could be no doubt 
about it; the noise was louder. And, if I could trust my 
eyes, the box was moving—giving a series of little jumps. 
This might have been an optical delusion, but it seemed 
to me that at each tick the box gave a little bound. Dur- 
ing the screeches—which sounded more like the cries of 
an animal in an agony of pain even than before—if it did 
not tilt itself first on one end, and then on another, I shall 
never be willing to trust the evidence of my own eyes 
again. And surely the box had increased in size; I could 


332 


The Puzzle 


have sworn not only that it had increased, but that it was 
increasing, even as I stood there iooking on. It had 
grown, and still was growing, both broader, and longer, 
and deeper. Pugh, of course, wouid have attributed it to 
supernatural agency; there never was a man with such a 
nose for a ghost. I could picture him occupying my posi- 
tion, shivering in his nightshirt, as he beheld that miracle 
taking place before his eyes. The solution which at once 
suggested itself to me—and which would never have sug- 
gested itself to Pugh!—was that the box was fashioned, 
as it were, in layers, and that the ingenious mechanism it 
contained was forcing the sides at once both upward and 
outward. I took it in my hand. I could feel something 
striking against the bottom of the box, like the tap, tap, 
tapping of a tiny hammer. 

“This is a pretty puzzle of Pugh’s. He would say that 
that is the tapping of a deathwatch. For my part I have 
not much faith in deathwatches, et hoc genus omne, but 
it certainly is a curious tapping; I wonder what is going 
to happen next?” 

Apparently nothing, except a continuation of those mys- 
terious sounds. That the box had increased in size I had, 
and have, no doubt whatever. I should say that it had 
increased a good inch in every direction, at least half an 
inch while I had been looking on. But while I stood 
looking its growth was suddenly and perceptibly stayed; 
it ceased to move. Only the noise continued. 

“T wonder how long it will be before anything worth 
happening does happen! I suppose something is going 
to happen; there can’t be all this to-do for nothing. If 
it is anything in the infernal machine line, and there is 
going to be an explosion, I might as well be here to see 
it. I think I'll have a pipe.” 

I put on my dressing-gown. I lit my pipe. I sat and 
stared at the box. I dare say I sat there for quite twenty 
minutes when, as before, without any sort of warning, the 
sound was stilled. Its sudden cessation rather startled me. 

“Has the mechanism again hung fire? Or, this time, is 


333 


English Mystery Stories 


the explosion coming off?” It did not come off; noth- 
ing came off. “Isn’t the box even going to open?” 

It did not open. There was simply silence all at once, 
and that was all. I sat there in expectation for some mo- 
ments longer. But I sat for nothing. I rose. I took the 
box in my hand. I shook it. 

“This puzzle is a puzzle.” I held the box first to one 
ear, then to the other. I gave it several sharp raps with my 
knuckles. There was not an answering sound, not even 
the sort of reverberation which Pugh and I had noticed at 
first. It seemed hollower than ever. It was as though the 
soul of the box was dead. “I suppose if I put you down, 
and extinguish the gas and return to bed, in about half an 
hour or so, just as I am dropping off to sleep, the per- 
formance will be recommenced. Perhaps the third time 
will be lucky.” 

But I was mistaken—there was no third time. When I 
returned to bed that time I returned to sleep, and ! was 
allowed to sleep; there was no continuation of the per- 
formance, at least so far as I know. For no sooner was I 
once more between the sheets than I was seized with an 
irresistible drowsiness, a drowsiness which so mastered me 
that I—I imagine it must have been instantly—sank into 
slumber which lasted till long after day had dawned. 
Whether or not any more mysterious sounds issued from 
the bowels of Pugh’s puzzle is more than I can tell. If 
they did, they did not succeed in rousing me. 

And yet, when at last I did awake, I had a sort of con- 
sciousness that my waking had been caused by something 
strange. What it was I could not surmise. My own im- 
pression was that I had been awakened by the touch of a 
person’s hand. But that impression must have been a mis- 
taken one, because, as I could easily see by looking round 
the room, there was no one in the room to touch me. 

It was broad daylight. I looked at my watch; it was 
nearly eleven o’clock. I am a pretty late sleeper as a rule, 
but I do not usually sleep as late as that. That scoundrel 
Bob would let me sleep all day without thinking it neces- 


334 


The Puzzle 


sary to call me. I was just about to spring out of bed 
with the intention of ringing the bell so that I might 
give Bob a piece of my mind for allowing me to sleep 
so late, when my glance fell on the dressing-table on 
which, the night before, I had placed Pugh’s puzzle. It 
had gone! 

Its absence so took me by surprise that I ran to the 
table. It had gone. But it had not gone far; it had gone 
to pieces! There were the pieces lying where the box had 
been. The puzzle had solved itself. The box was open, 
open with a vengeance, one might say. Like that unfortu- 
nate Humpty Dumpty, who, so the chroniclers tell us, sat 
on a wall, surely “all the king’s horses and all the king’s 
men” never could put Pugh’s puzzle together again! 

The marquetry had resolved itself into its component 
parts. How those parts had ever been joined was a mys- 
tery. They had been laid upon no foundation, as is the 
case with ordinary inlaid work. The several pieces of wood 
were not only of different shapes and sizes, but they were 
as thin as the thinnest veneer ; yet the box had been formed 
by simply joining them together. The man who made that 
box must have been possessed of ingenuity worthy of a 
better cause. 

I perceived how the puzzle had been worked. The box 
had contained an arrangement of springs, which, on being 
released, had expanded themselves in different directions 
until their mere expansion had rent the box to pieces. 
There were the springs, lying amid the ruin they had 
caused. 

There was something else amid that ruin besides those 
springs; there was a small piece of writing paper. I took 
it up. On the reverse side of it was written in a minute, 
crabbed hand: ‘‘ A Present For You.” What was a pres- 
ent for me? I looked, and, not for the first time since I 
had caught sight of Pugh’s precious puzzle, could scarcely 
believe my eyes. 

There, poised between two upright wires, the bent ends 
of which held it aloft in the air, was either a piece of glass 


335 


English Mystery Stories 


or—a crystal. The scrap of writing paper had exactly cov- 
ered it. I understood what it was, when Pugh and I had 
tapped with the hammer, had caused the answering taps 
to proceed from within. Our taps caused the wires to oscil- 
late, and in these oscillations the crystal, which they held 
suspended, had touched the side of the box. 

I looked again at the piece of paper. “A Present For 
You.” Was this the present—this crystal? I regarded it 
intently. ’ 

“Tt can’t be a diamond.” 

The idea was ridiculous, absurd. No man in his senses 
would place a diamond inside a twopenny-halfpenny puzzle 
box. The thing was as big as a walnut! And yet—I am 
a pretty good judge of precious stones—if it was not an > 
uncut diamond it was the best imitation I had seen. I took 
it up. I examined it closely. The more closely I examined 
it, the more my wonder grew. 

lies a diamond)” 

And yet the idea was too preposterous for credence. 
Who would present a diamond as big as a walnut with a 
trumpery puzzle? Besides, all the diamonds which the 
world contains of that size are almost as well known as the 
Koh-i-noor. 

“Tf it is a diamond, it is worth—it is worth—Heaven only 
knows what it isn’t worth if it’s a diamond.” 

I regarded it through a strong pocket lens. As I did so 
I could not restrain an exclamation. 

“The world to a China orange, it is a diamond!” 

The words had scarcely escaped my lips than there came 
a tapping at the door. 

“Come in!” I cried, supposing it was Bob. It was not 
Bob, it was Pugh. Instinctively I put the lens and the 
crystal behind my back. At sight of me in my nightshirt 
Pugh began to shake his head. 

“What hours, Tress, what hours! Why, my dear Tress, 
I’ve breakfasted, read the papers and my letters, came all 
the way from my house here, and you’re not up!” 

“Don’t I look as though I were up?” 


336 


The Puzzle 


“ Ah, Tress! Tress!” He approached the dressing-table. 
His eye fell upon the ruins. “ What’s this?” 

“ That’s the solution to the puzzle.” 

“ Have you—have you solved it fairly, Tress?” 

“Tt has solved itself. Our handling, and tapping, and 
hammering must have freed the springs which the box con- 
tained, and during the night, while I slept, they have caused 
it to come open.” 

“While you slept? Dear me! How strange! And— 
what are these?” 

He had discovered the two upright wires on which the 
erystal had been poised. 

““T suppose they’re part of the puzzle.” 

“And was there anything in the box? What’s this?” 
He picked up the scrap of paper; I had left it on the table. 
He read what was written on it: “‘A Present For You.’ 
What’s it mean? Tress, was this in the box?” 

“Tt was.” 

“What’s it mean about a present? Was there anything 
in the box besides?” 

“Pugh, if you will leave the room I shall be able to 
dress; I am not in the habit of receiving quite such early 
calls, or I should have been prepared to receive you. If 
you will wait in the next room, I will be with you as soon 
as I’m dressed. There is a little subject in connection with 
the box which I wish to discuss with you.” 

“A subject in connection with the box? What is the 
subject?” 

“T will tell you, Pugh, when I have performed my toilet.” 

“Why can’t you tell me now?” 

“Do you propose, then, that I should stand here shiver- 
ing in my shirt while you are prosing at your ease? Thank 
you; I am obliged, but I decline. May I ask you once 
more, Pugh, to wait for me in the adjoining apartment?” 

He moved toward the door. When he had taken a couple 
of steps, he halted. 

““I—TI hope, Tress, that you’re—you’re going to play no 
tricks on me?” 


337 


English Mystery Stories 


“Tricks on you! Is it likely that I am going to play 
tricks upon my oldest friend? ”’ 

When he had gone—he vanished, it seemed to me, with 
a somewhat doubtful visage—I took the crystal to the win- 
dow. I drew the blind. I let the sunshine fall on it. I 
examined it again, closely and minutely, with the aid of 
my pocket lens. It was a diamond; there could not be a 
doubt of it. If, with my knowledge of stones, I was de- 
ceived, then I was deceived as never man had been deceived 
before. My heart beat faster as I recognized the fact that 
I was holding in my hand what was, in all probability, a 
fortune for a man of moderate desires. Of course, Pugh 
knew nothing of what I had discovered, and there was no. 
reason why he should know. Not the least! The only dif- 
ficulty was that if I kept my own counsel, and sold the 
stone and utilized the proceeds of the sale, I should have 
to invent a story which would account for my sudden ac- 
cession to fortune. Pugh knows almost as much of my 
affairs as I do myself. That is the worst of these old 
friends! 

When I joined Pugh I found him dancing up and down 
the floor like a bear upon hot plates. He scarcely allowed 
me to put my nose inside the door before attacking me. 

“Tress, give me what was in the box.” 

“My dear Pugh, how do you know that there was some- 
thing in the box to give you?” 

“T know there was!” 

“Indeed! If you know that there was something in the 
box, perhaps you will tell me what that something was.” 

He eyed me doubtfully. Then, advancing, he laid upon 
my arm a hand which positively trembled. 

“Tress, you—you wouldn’t play tricks on an old friend.” 

“You are right, Pugh, I wouldn’t, though I believe 
there have been occasions on which you have had doubts 
upon the subject. By the way, Pugh, I believe that I am 
the oldest friend you have.” 

« “I—I don’t know about that. There’s—there’s Brasher.” 

“ Brasher! Who’s Brasher? You wouldn’t compare my 


338 


The Puzzle 


friendship to the friendship of such a man as Brasher? 
Think of the tastes we have in common, you and I. We're 
both collectors.” 

“ Ye-es, we’re both collectors.” 

“T make my interests yours, and you make your inter- 
ests mine. Isn’t that so, Pugh?” 

“Tress, what—what was in the box?” 

“JT will be frank with you, Pugh. If there had been 
something in the box, would you have been willing to go 
halves with me in my discovery?” 

“Go halves! In your discovery, Tress! Give me what 
is mine!” 

“With pleasure, Pugh, if you will tell me what is 
yours.” 

“ Tf—if you don’t give me what was in the box T’ll—T’ll 
send for the police.” 

“Do! Then I shall be able to hand to them what was 
in the box in order that it may be restored to its proper 
owner.” 

“Its proper owner! I’m its proper owner 

“Excuse me, but I don’t understand how that can be; 
at least, until the police have made inquiries. I should say 
that the proper owner was the person from whom you pur- 
chased the box, or, more probably, the person from whom 
he purchased it, and by whom, doubtless, it was sold in 
ignorance, or by mistake. Thus, Pugh, if you will only 
send for the police, we shall earn the gratitude of a person 
of whom we never heard in our lives—I for discovering the 
contents of the box, and you for returning them.” 

As I said this, Pugh’s face was a study. He gasped for 
breath. He actually took out his handkerchief to wipe his 
brow. 

“Tress, I—I don’t think you need to use a tone like that 
to me. It isn’t friendly. What—what was in the box?” 

“ Let us understand each other, Pugh. Hf you don’t hand 
over what was in the box to the police, I go halves.” 

Pugh began to dance about the floor. 

“What a fool I was to trust you with the box! I knew 


339 


9 
! 


English Mystery Stories 


I couldn’t trust you.” I said nothing. I turned and rang 
the bell. ‘ What’s that for?” 

“That, my dear Pugh, is for breakfast, and, if you desire 
it, for the police. You know, although you have break- 
fasted, I haven’t. Perhaps while I am breaking my fast, 
you would like to summon the representatives of law and 
order.” Bob camein. I ordered breakfast. Then I turned 
to Pugh. “Is there anything you would like?” 

“No, I—I’ve breakfasted.”’ 

“It wasn’t of breakfast I was thinking. It was of—some- 
thing else. Bob is at your service, if, for instance, you wish 
to send him on an errand.” 

“No, I want nothing. Bob can go.” Bob went. Di- 
rectly he was gone, Pugh turned to me. “ You shall have 
half. What was in the box?” 

“T shall have half?” 

“You shall!” 

“T don’t think it is necessary that the terms of our little 
understanding should be expressly embodied in black and 
white. I fancy that, under the circumstance, I can trust 
you, Pugh. I believe that I am capable of seeing that, in 
this matter, you don’t do me. That was in the box.” 

I held out the crystal between my finger and thumb. 

“What is it?” 

“That is what I desire to learn.” 

eet. me look. att. 

“You are welcome to look at it where it is. Look at it 
as long as you like, and as closely.” 

Pugh leaned over my hand. His eyes began to gleam. 
He is himself not a bad judge of precious stones, is Pugh. 

“ It’s—it’s—Tress !—is it a diamond?” 

“That question I have already asked myself.” 

“Let me look at it! It will be safe with me! It’s mine 

I immediately put the thing behind my back. 

“Pardon me, it belongs neither to you nor to me. It be- 
longs, in all probability, to the person who sold that puzzle 
to the man from whom you bought it—perhaps some weep- 
ing widow, Pugh, or hopeless orphan—think of it. Let us 


340 


1°? 


The Puzzle 


have no further misunderstanding upon that point, my dear 
old friend. Still, because you are my dear old friend, | am 
willing to trust you with this discovery of mine, on condi- 
tion that you don’t attempt to remove it from my sight, 
and that you return it to me the moment I require you.” 

“ You’re—you’re very hard on me.” I made a move- 
ment toward my waistcoat pocket. “Tl return it to you! ” 

I handed him the crystal, and with it I handed him my 
pocket lens. 

“With the aid of that glass I imagine that you will be 
able to subject it to a more acute examination, Pugh.” 

He began to examine it through the lens. Directly he 
did so, he gave an exclamation. In a few moments he 
looked up at me. His eyes were glistening behind his spec-. 
tacles. I could see he trembled. 

“Tress, it’s—it’s a diamond, a Brazil diamond. It’s. 
worth a fortune!” | 

“T’m glad you think so.” 

“Glad I think so! Don’t you think that it’s a diamond? ” 

“Tt appears to bea diamond. Under ordinary conditions. 
I should say, without hesitation, that it was a diamond. 
But when I consider the circumstances of its discovery, I 
am driven to doubts. How much did you give for that 
puzzle, Pugh?” 

“ Ninepence ; the fellow wanted a shilling, but I gave him 
ninepence. He seemed content.” 

“Ninepence! Does it seem reasonable that we should. 
find a diamond, which, if it is a diamond, is the finest stone 
I ever saw and handled, in a ninepenny puzzle? It is not 
as though it had got into the thing by accident, it had 
evidently been placed there to be found, and, apparently, 
by anyone who chanced to solve the puzzle; witness the 
writing on the scrap of paper.” 

Pugh reéxamined the crystal. 

“Tt is a diamond! I'll stake my life that it’s a dia- 
mond!” 

“ Still, though it be a diamond, I smell a rat!” 

“What do you mean?” 


341 


English Mystery Stories 


“T strongly suspect that the person who placed that 
diamond inside that puzzle intended to have a joke at the 
expense of the person who discovered it. What was to be 
the nature of the joke is more than I can say at present, 
but I should like to have a bet with you that the man who 
compounded that puzzle was an ingenious practical joker. 
I may be wrong, Pugh; we shall see. But, until I have 
proved the contrary, I don’t believe that the maddest man 
that ever lived would throw away a diamond worth, ap- 
parently, shall we say a thousand pounds?” 

“A thousand pounds! This diamond is worth a good 
deal more than a thousand pounds.” 

“Well, that only makes my case the stronger; I don’t 
believe that the maddest man that ever lived would throw 
‘ away a diamond worth more than a thousand pounds with 
such utter wantonness as seems to have characterized the 
action of the original owner of the stone which I found in 
your ninepenny puzzle, Pugh.” 

“There have been some eccentric characters in the 
world, some very eccentric characters. However, as you 
say, we shall see. I fancy that I know somebody who would 
be quite willing to have such a diamond as this, and who, 
moreover, would be willing to pay a fair price for its pos- 
session; I will take it to him and see what he says.” 

“ Pugh, hand me back that diamond.” 

“My dear Tress, I was only goin 

Bob came in with the breakfast tray. 

“Pugh, you will either hand me that at once, or Bob 
shall summon the representatives of law and order.” 

He handed me the diamond. I sat down to breakfast 
with a hearty appetite. Pugh stood and scowled at me. 

“Joseph Tress, it is my solemn conviction, and I have 
no hesitation in saying so in plain English, that you’re a 
thief.” 

“My dear Pugh, it seems to me that we show every 
promise of becoming a couple of thieves.” 

“Don’t bracket me with you!” 

“Not at all, you are worse than I. It is you who decline 


342 


9? 


The Puzzle 


to return the contents of the box to its proper owner. Put 
it to yourself, you have some common sense, my dear old 
friend!—do you suppose that a diamond worth more than 
a thousand pounds is to be honestly bought for ninepence? ” 

He resumed his old trick of dancing about the room. 

“TI was a fool ever to let you have the box! I ougat to 
have known better than to have trusted you; goodness 
knows you have given me sufficient cause to mistrust you! 
Over and over again! Your character is only too notorious! 
You have plundered friend and foe alike—friend and foe 
alike! As for the rubbish which you call your collection, 
nine tenths of it, I know as a positive fact, you have stolen 
out and out.” 

“Who stole my Sir Walter Raleigh pipe? Wasn't it a 
man named Pugh?” 

“Look here, Joseph Tress!” 

“T’m looking.” 

“Oh, it’s no good talking to you, not the least! You’re 
—you’re dead to all the promptings of conscience! May I 
inquire, Mr. Tress, what it is you propose to do?” 

“T propose to do nothing, except summon the represent- 
atives of law and order. Failing that, my dear Pugh, I had 
some faint, vague, very vague idea of taking the contents 
of your ninepenny puzzle to a certain firm in Hatton Gar- 
den, who are dealers in precious stones, and to learn from 
them if they are disposed to give anything for it, and if so, 
what.” 

““T shall come with you.” 

“With pleasure, on condition that you pay the cab.” 

“T pay the cab! I will pay half.” 

“Not at all. You will either pay the whole fare, or else 
I will have one cab and you shall have another. It is a 
three-shilling cab fare from here to Hatton Garden. If you 
propose to share my cab, you will be so good as to hand 
over that three shillings before we start.” 

He gasped, but he handed over the three shillings. There 
are few things I enjoy so much as getting money out of 
Pugh! 

343 


English Mystery Stories 


On the road to Hatton Garden we wrangled nearly all 
the way. I own that I feel a certain satisfaction in irritat- 
ing Pugh, he is such an irritable man. He wanted to know 
what I thought we should get for the diamond. 

“You can’t expect to get much for the contents of 
a ninepenny puzzle, not even the price of a cab fare, 
Puch.’ 

He eyed me, but for some minutes he was silent. Then 
he began again. 

“Tress, I don’t think we ought to let it go for less than 
—than five thousand pounds.” 

“Seriously, Pugh, I doubt whether, when the whole af- 
fair is ended, we shall get five thousand pence for it, or, 
for the matter of that, five thousand farthings.” 

“But why not? Why not? It’s a magnificent stone— 
magnificent! I’ll stake my life on it.” 

I tapped my breast with the tips of my fingers. 

“There’s a warning voice within my breast that ought 
to be in yours, Pugh! Something tells me, perhaps it is 
the unusually strong vein of common sense which I pos- 
sess, that the contents of your ninepenny puzzle will be 
found to be a magnificent do—an ingenious practical joke, 
my friend.” 

“T don’t believe it.” 

But I think he did; at any rate, I had unsettled the 
foundations of his faith. 

We entered the Hatton Garden office side by side; in 
his anxiety not to let me get before him, Pugh actually 
clung to my arm. The office was divided into two parts 
by a counter which ran from wall to wall. I advanced to 
a man who stood on the other side of this counter. 

“T want to sell you a diamond.” 

“We want to sell you a diamond,” interpolated Pugh. 

I turned to Pugh. I “ fixed” him with my glance. 

“TI want to sell you a diamond. Here it is. What will 
you give me for it?” 

Taking the crystal from my waistcoat pocket I handed 
it to the man on the other side of the counter. Directly 


344 


The Puzzle 


he got it between his fingers, and saw that it was that 
he had got, I noticed a sudden gleam come into his eyes. 

“ This is—this is rather a fine stone.” 

Pugh nudged my arm. 

“T told you so.” I paid no attention to Pugh. “ What 
will you give me for it?” 

“Do you mean, what will I give you for it cash down 
upon the nail?” 

“Just so—what will you give me for it cash down upon 
the nail?” 

The man turned the crystal over and over in his fingers. 

“ Well, that’s rather a large order. We don’t often get 
a chance of buying such a stone as this across the counter. 
What do you say to—well—to ten thousand pounds?” 

Ten thousand pounds! It was beyond my wildest imag- 
inings. Pugh gasped. He lurched against the counter. 

“Ten thousand pounds!” he echoed. 

The man on the other side glanced at him, I thought, 
a little curiously. 

“Tf you can give me references, or satisfy me in any 
way as to your bona fides, I am prepared to give you for 
this diamond an open check for ten thousand pounds, or 
if you prefer it, the cash instead.” 

I stared; I was not accustomed to see business trans- 
acted on quite such lines as those. 

“We'll take it,’ murmured Pugh; I believe he was 
too much overcome by his feelings to do more than mur- 
mur. I interposed. 

“My dear sir, you will excuse my saying that you arrive 
very rapidly at your conclusions. In the first place, how 
can you make sure that it is a diamond?” 

The man behind the counter smiled. 

“T should be very ill-fitted for the position which I hold 
if I could not tell a diamond directly I get a sight of it, 
especially such a stone as this.” 

“But have you no tests you can apply?” 

“We have tests which we apply in cases in which doubt 
exists, but in this case there is no doubt whatever. I am 


345 


English Mystery Stories 


as sure that this is a diamond as I am sure that it is air 
I breathe. However, here is a test.” 

There was a wheel close by the speaker. It was worked 
by a treadle. It was more like a superior sort of traveling- 
tinker’s grindstone than anything else. The man behind 
the counter put his foot upon the treadle. The wheel be- 
gan to revolve. He brought the crystal into contact with 
the swiftly revolving wheel. There was a s—s—sh! And, 
in an instant, his hand was empty; the crystal had van- 
ished into air. 

“Good heavens!” he gasped. I never saw such a look 
of amazement on a human countenance before. “ It’s 


aad 


splintered ! 
POSTSCRIPT 


It was a diamond, although it had splintered. In that 
fact lay the point of the joke. The man behind the counter 
had not been wrong; examination of such dust as could 
be collected proved that fact beyond a doubt. It was de- 
clared by experts that the diamond, at some period of its 
history, had been subjected to intense and continuing heat. 
The result had been to make it as brittle as glass. 

There could be no doubt that its original owner had 
been an expert too. He knew where he got it from, and 
he probably knew what it had endured. He was aware 
that, from a mercantile point of view, it was worthless; it 
could never have been cut. So, having a turn for humor 
of a peculiar kind, he had devoted days, and weeks, and 
possibly months, to the construction of that puzzle. He 
had placed the diamond inside, and he had enjoyed, in 
anticipation and in imagination, the Alnaschar visions of 
the lucky finder. 

Pugh blamed me for the catastrophe. He said, and still 
says, that if I had not, ina measure, and quite gratuitously, 
insisted on a test, the man behind the counter would have 
been satisfied with the evidence of his organs of vision, 
and we should have been richer by ten thousand pounds. 


346 


The Great Valdez Sapphire 


But I satisfy my conscience with the reflection that what 
I did at any rate was honest, though, at the same time, 
I am perfectly well aware that such a reflection gives Pugh 
no sort of satisfaction. 


The Great Valdez Sapphire 


I KNOW more about it than anyone else in the world, 
its present owner not excepted. I can give its whole 
history, from the Cingalese who found it, the Spanish ad- 
venturer who stole it, the cardinal who bought it, the Pope 
who graciously accepted it, the favored son of the Church 
who received it, the gay and giddy duchess who pawned 
it, down to the eminent prelate who now holds it in trust 
as a family heirloom. 

It will occupy a chapter to itself in my forthcoming work 
on “ Historic Stones,” where full details of its weight, size, 
color, and value may be found. At present I am going 
to relate an incident in its history which, for obvious rea- 
sons, will not be published—which, in fact, I trust the 
reader will consider related in strict confidence. 

I had never seen the stone itself when I began to write 
about it, and it was not till one evening last spring, while 
staying with my nephew, Sir Thomas Acton, that I came 
within measurable distance of it. A dinner party was im- 
pending, and, at my instigation, the Bishop of Northchurch 
and Miss Panton, his daughter and heiress, were among the 
invited guests. 

The dinner was a particularly good one, I remember that 
distinctly. In fact, I felt myself partly responsible for it, 
having engaged the new cook—a talented young Italian, 
pupil of the admirable old chef at my club. We had gone 
over the menu carefully together, with a result refreshing 
in its novelty, but not so daring as to disturb the minds of 
the innocent country guests who were bidden thereto. 

The first spoonful of soup was reassuring, and I looked 


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English Mystery Stories 


to the end of the table to exchange a congratulatory glance 
with Leta. What was amiss? No response. Her pretty 
face was flushed, her smile constrained, she was talking 
with quite unnecessary empressement to her neighbor, Sir 
Harry Landor, though Leta is one of those few women 
who understand the importance of letting a man settle down 
tranquilly and with an undisturbed mind to the business 
of dining, allowing no topic of serious interest to come on 
before the relevés, and reserving mere conversational bril- 
liancy for the entremets. 

Guests all right? No disappointments? I had gone 
through the list with her, selecting just the right people 
to be asked to meet the Landors, our new neighbors. Not 
a mere cumbrous county gathering, nor yet a showy im- 
ported party from town, but a skillful blending of both. 
Had anything happened already? I had been late for din- 
ner and missed the arrivals in the drawing-room. It was 
Leta’s fault. She has got into a way of coming into my 
room and putting the last touches to my toilet. I let her, 
for I am doubtful of myself nowadays after many years’ 
dependence on the best of valets. Her taste is generally 
beyond dispute, but to-day she had indulged in a feminine 
vagary that provoked me and made me late for dinner. 

“Are you going to wear your sapphire, Uncle Paul!” 
she cried in a tone of dismay. “ Oh, why not the ruby?” 

“You would have your way about the table decorations,” 
I gently reminded her. “ With that service of Crown Derby 
repoussé and orchids, the ruby would look absolutely bar- 
baric. Now if you would have had the Limoges set, white 
candles, and a yellow silk center i" 

“Oh, but—I’m so disappointed—I wanted the bishop to 
see your ruby—or one of your engraved gems——” 

“My dear, it is on the bishop’s account I put this on. 
You know his daughter is heiress of the great Valdez 
sapphire “ 

“ Of course she is, and when he has the charge of a stone 
three times as big as yours, what’s the use of wearing it? 
The ruby, dear Uncle Paul, please!” 


348 


The Great Valdez Sapphire 


She was desperately in earnest I could see, and consider- 
ing the obligations which I am supposed to be under to 
her and Tom; it was but a little matter to yield, but it in- 
volved a good deal of extra trouble. Studs, sleeve-links, 
watch-guard, all carefully selected to go with the sapphire, 
had to be changed, the emerald which I chose as a compro- 
mise requiring more florid accompaniments of a deeper tone 
of gold; and the dinner hour struck as I replaced my jewel 
case, the one relic left me of a once handsome fortune, in 
my fireproof safe. 

The emerald looked very well that evening, however. I 
kept my eyes upon it for comfort when Miss Panton proved 
trying. 

She was a lean, yellow, dictatorial young person with 
no conversation. I spoke of her father’s celebrated sap- 
phires. “ My sapphires,” she amended sourly; “though I 
am legally debarred from making any profitable use of 
them.” She furthermore informed me that she viewed them 
as useless gauds, which ought to be disposed of for the 
benefit of the heathen. I gave the subject up, and while 
she discoursed of the work of the Blue Ribbon Army among 
the Bosjesmans I tried to understand a certain dislocation 
in the arrangement of the table. Surely we were more 
or less in number than we should be? Opposite side all 
right. Who was extra on ours? I leaned forward. Lady 
Landor on one side of Tom, on the other who? I caught 
glimpses of plumes pink and green nodding over a dinner 
plate, and beneath them a pink nose in a green visage with 
a nutcracker chin altogether unknown to me. A sharp gray 
eye shot a sideway glance down the table and caught me 
peeping, and I retreated, having only marked in addition 
two clawlike hands, with pointed ruffles and a mass of 
brilliant rings, making good play with a knife and fork. 
Who was she? At intervals a high acid voice could be 
heard addressing Tom, and a laugh that made me shud- 
der; it had the quality of the scream of a bird of prey or 
the yell of a jackal. I had heard that sort of laugh before, 
and it always made me feel like a defenseless rabbit 


349 


English Mystery Stories 


Every time it sounded I saw Leta’s fan flutter more furi- 
ously and her manner grow more nervously animated. Poor 
dear girl! I never in all my recollection wished a dinner 
at an end so earnestly so as to assure her of my support 
and sympathy, though without the faintest conception why 
either should be required. 

The ices at last. A menu card folded in two was laid 
beside me. I read it unobserved. ‘“ Keep the B. from join- 
ing us in the drawing-room.” The B.? The bishop, of 
course. With pleasure. But why? And how? That’s the 
question, never mind “why.” Could I lure him into the 
library—the billiard room—the conservatory? I doubted it, 
and I doubted still more what I should do with him when 
I got him there. 

The bishop is a grand and stately ecclesiastic of the me- 
dizval type, broad-chested, deep-voiced, martial of bearing. 
I could picture him charging mace in hand at the head of 
his vassals, or delivering over a dissenter of the period to 
the rack and thumbscrew, but not pottering among rare 
editions, tall copies and Grolier bindings, nor condescend- 
ing to a quiet cigar among the tree ferns and orchids. Leta 
must and should be obeyed, I swore, nevertheless, even if 
I were driven to lock the door in the fearless old fashion 
of a bygone day, and declare I’d shoot any man who left 
while a drop remained in the bottles. 

The ladies were rising. The lady at the head of the 
line smirked and nodded her pink plumes coquettishly at 
Tom, while her hawk’s eyes roved keen and predatory 
over us all. She stopped suddenly, creating a block and 
confusion. 

“ Ah, the dear bishop! You there, and I never saw you! 
You must come and have a nice long chat presently. By- 
by—!” She shook her fan at him over my shoulder and 
tripped off. Leta, passing me last, gave me a look of pro- 
found despair. 

“Lady Carwitchet!” somebody exclaimed. “I couldn’t 
believe my eyes.” 

“Thought she was dead or in penal servitude. Never 


350 


The Great Valdez Sapphire 


’ 


should have expected to see her here,” said some one else 
behind me confidentially. 

“What Carwitchet? Not the mother of the Carwitchet 
who" 

“Just so. The Carwitchet who—”’ Tom assented with a 
shrug. ‘We needn’t go farther, as she’s my guest. Just 
my luck. I met them at Buxton, thought them uncommonly 
good company—in fact, Carwitchet laid me under a great 
obligation about a horse I was nearly let in for buying— 
and gave them a general invitation here, as one does, you 
know. Never expected her to turn up with her luggage 
this afternoon just before dinner, to stay a week, or a 
fortnight if Carwitchet can join her.” A groan of sym- 
pathy ran round the table. “It can’t be helped. I’ve told 
you this just to show that I shouldn’t have asked you here 
to meet this sort of people of my own free will; but, as it 
is, please say no more about them.” The subject was not 
dropped by any means, and I took care that it should not 
be. At our end of the table one story after another went 
buzzing round—sotto voce, out of deference to Tom—but 
perfectly audible. 

“Carwitchet? Ah, yes. Mixed up in that Rawlings di- 
vorce case, wasn’t he? A bad lot. Turned out of the 
Dragoon Guards for cheating at cards, or picking pockets, 
or something—remember the row at the Cerulean Club? 
Scandalous exposure—and that forged letter business—oh, 
that was the mother—prosecution hushed up somehow. 
Ought to be serving her fourteen years—and that business 
of poor Farrars, the banker—got hold of some of his se- 
crets and blackmailed him till he blew his brains out——” 

It was so exciting that I clean forgot the bishop, till a 
low gasp at my elbow startled me. He was lying back in 
his chair, his mighty shaven jowl a ghastly white, his fierce 
imperious eyebrows drooping limp over his fishlike eyes, 
his splendid figure shrunk and contracted. He was try- 
ing with a shaken hand to pour out wine. The decanter 
clattered against the glass and the wine spilled on the 
cloth. 


351 


English Mystery Stories 


“T’m afraid you find the room too warm. Shall we go 
into the library?” 

He rose hastily and followed me like a lamb. 

He recovered himself once we got into the hall, and 
affably rejected all my proffers of brandy and soda—medical 
advice—everything else my limited experience could sug- 
gest. He only demanded his carriage “ directly ” and that 
Miss Panton should be summoned forthwith. 

I made the best use I could of the time left me. 

“T’m uncommonly sorry you do not feel equal to staying 
a little longer, my lord. I counted on showing you my few 
trifles of precious stones, the salvage from the wreck of 
my possessions. Nothing in comparison with your own col-. 
lection.” 

The bishop clasped his hand over his heart. His breath 
came short and quick. 

“A return of that dizziness,” he explained with a faint 
smile. “ You are thinking of the Valdez sapphire, are you 
not? Some day,” he went on with forced composure, “I 
may have the pleasure of showing it to you. It is at my 
banker’s just now.” 

Miss Panton’s steps were heard in the hall. ‘“ You are 
well known as a connoisseur, Mr. Acton,” he went on hur- 
riedly. “Is your collection valuable? If so, keep it safe; 
don’t trust a ring off your hand, or the key of your jewel 
case out of your pocket till the house is clear again.” The 
words rushed from his lips in an impetuous whisper, he 
gave me a meaning glance, and departed with his daughter. 
I went back to the drawing-room, my head swimming with 
bewilderment. 

“What! The dear bishop gone!” screamed Lady Car- 
witchet from the central ottoman where she sat, surrounded 
by most of the gentlemen, all apparently well entertained by 
her conversation. “And I wanted to talk over old times 
with him so badly. His poor wife was my greatest friend. 
Mira Montanaro, daughter of the great banker, you know. 
It’s not possible that that miserable little prig is my poor 
Mira’s girl. The heiress of all the Montanaros in a black 


352 


The Great Valdez Sapphire 


lace gown worth twopence! When I think of her mother’s 
beauty and her toilets! Does she ever wear the sapphires? 
Has anyone ever seen her in them? Eleven large stones in 
a lovely antique setting, and the great Valdez sapphire 
—worth thousands and thousands—for the pendant.” 
No one replied. “I wanted to get a rise out of the 
bishop to-night. It used to make him so mad when I 
wore this.” 

She fumbled among the laces at her throat, and clawed 
out a pendant that hung to a velvet band around her neck. 
I fairly gasped when she removed her hand. A sapphire of 
irregular shape flashed out its blue lightning on us. Such 
a stone! A true, rich, cornflower blue even by that wretched 
artificial light, with soft velvety depths of color and dazzling 
clearness of tint in its lights and shades—a stone to remem- 
ber! I stretched out my hand involuntarily, but Lady Car- 
witchet drew back with a coquettish squeal. ‘‘ No! no! 
‘You mustn’t look any closer. Tell me what you think of 
it now. Isn’t it pretty?” 

“ Superb!” was all I could ejaculate, staring at the azure 
splendor of that miraculous jewel in a sort of trance. 

She gave a shrill cackling laugh of mockery. 

“The great Mr. Acton taken in by a bit of Palais Royal 
gimcrackery! What an advertisement for Bogaerts et Cie! 
They are perfect artists in frauds. Don’t you remember 
their stand at the first Paris Exhibition? They had imita- 
tations there of every celebrated stone; but I never expected 
anything made by man could delude Mr. Acton, never!” 
And she went off into another mocking cackle, and all the 
idiots round her haw-hawed knowingly, as if they had seen 
the joke all along. I was too bewildered to reply, which 
was on the whole lucky. “I suppose I mustn’t tell why I 
came to give quite a big sum in francs for this?’ she went 
on, tapping her closed lips with her closed fan, and cock- 
ing her eye at us all like a parrot wanting to be coaxed to 
talk. “It’s a queer story.” 

I didn’t want to hear her anecdote, especially as I saw she 
wanted to tell it. What I did want was to see that pendant 


353 


English Mystery Stories 


again. She had thrust it back among her laces, only the 
loop which held it to the velvet being visible. It was set 
with three small sapphires, and even from a distance I 
clearly made them out to be imitations, and poor ones. I 
felt a queer thrill of self-mistrust. Was the large stone no 
better? Could I, even for an instant, have been dazzled by 
a sham, and a sham of that quality? The events of the 
evening had flurried and confused me. I wished to think 
them over in quiet. I would go to bed. 

My rooms at the Manor are the best in the house. Leta 
will have it so. I must explain their position for a reason 
to be understood later. My bedroom is in the southeast 
angle of the house; it opens on one side into a sitting-room 
in the east corridor, the rest of which is taken up by the 
suite of rooms occupied by Tom and Leta; and on the other 
side into my bathroom, the first room in the south corridor, 
where the principal guest chambers are, to one of which 
it was originally the dressing-room. Passing this room I 
noticed a couple of housemaids preparing it for the night, 
and discovered with a shiver that Lady Carwitchet was to 
be my next-door neighbor. It gave me a turn. 

The bishop’s strange warning must have unnerved me. 
I was perfectly safe from her ladyship. The disused door 
into her room was locked, and the key safe on the house- 
keeper’s bunch. It was also undiscoverable on her side, the 
recess in which it stood being completely filled by a large 
wardrobe. On my side hung a thick sound-proof portiére. 
Nevertheless, I resolved not to use that room while she 
inhabited the next one. I removed my possessions, fastened 
the door of communication with my bedroom, and dragged 
a heavy ottoman across it. 

Then I stowed away my emerald in my strong-box. It 
is built into the wall of my sitting-room, and masked by the 
lower part of an old carved oak bureau. I put away even 
the rings I wore habitually, keeping out only an inferior 
cat’s-eye for workaday wear. I had just made all safe when 
Leta tapped at the door and came in to wish me good 
night. She looked flushed and harassed and ready to cry. 


354 


The Great Valdez Sapphire 


“Uncle Paul,” she began, “I want you to go up to town 
at once, and stay away till I send for you.” 

“My dear—!” I was too amazed to expostulate. 

“ We've got a—a pestilence among us,” she declared, her 
foot tapping the ground angrily, “and the least we can do 
is to go into quarantine. Oh, I’m so sorry and so ashamed! 
The poor bishop! I'll take good care that no one else shall 
meet that woman here. You did your best for me, Uncle 
Paul, and managed admirably, but it was all no use. I 
hoped against hope that what between the dusk of the 
drawing-room before dinner, and being put at opposite ends 
of the table, we might get through without a meeting - 

“ But, my dear, explain. Why shouldn’t the bishop and 
Lady Carwitchet meet? Why is it worse for him than any- 
one else?” 

“Why? I thought everybody had heard of that dreadful 
wife of his who nearly broke his heart. If he married her 
for her money it served him right, but Lady Landor says 
she was very handsome and really in love with him at first. 
Then Lady Carwitchet got hold of her and led her into all 
sorts of mischief. She left her husband—he was only a 
rector with a country living in those days—and went to live 
in town, got into a horrid fast set, and made herself notori- 
ous. You must have heard of her.” 

“I heard of her sapphires, my dear. But I was in Brazil 
at the time.” 

“T wish you had been at home. You might have found 
her out. She was furious because her husband refused to 
let her wear the great Valdez sapphire. It had been in the 
Montanaro family for some generations, and her father set- 
tled it first on her and then on her little girl—the bishop 
being trustee. He felt obliged to take away the little girl, 
and send her off to be brought up by some old aunts in the 
country, and he locked up the sapphire. Lady Carwitchet 
tells as a splendid joke how they got the copy made in 
Paris, and it did just as well for the people to stare at. .No 
wonder the bishop hates the very name of the stone.” 

“ How long will she stay here?” I asked dismally. 


355 


English Mystery Stories 


“ Till Lord Carwitchet can come and escort her to Paris 
to visit some American friends. Goodness knows when 
that will be! Do go up to town, Uncle Paul! ” 

I refused indignantly. The very least I could do was to 
‘stand by my poor young relatives in their troubles and help 
them through. I did so. I wore that inferior cat’s eye for 
‘six weeks! 

It is a time I cannot think of even now without a shud- 
der. The more I saw of that terrible old woman the more 
I detested her, and we saw a very great deal of her. Leta 
kept her word, and neither accepted nor gave invitations 
all that time. We were cut off from all society but that 
of old General Fairford, who would go anywhere and meet 
anyone to get a rubber after dinner; the doctor, a sporting 
widower; and the Duberlys, a giddy, rather rackety young 
couple who had taken the Dower House for a year. Lady 
Carwitchet seemed perfectly content. She reveled in the 
soft living and good fare of the Manor House, the drives 
in Leta’s big barouche, and Domenico’s dinners, as one to 
whom short commons were not unknown. She had a hun- 
gry way of grabbing and grasping at everything she could— 
the shillings she won at whist, the best fruit at dessert, the 
postage stamps in the library inkstand—that was infinitely 
suggestive. Sometimes I could have pitied her, she was so 
greedy, so spiteful, so friendless. She always made me 
think of some wicked old pirate putting into a peaceful 
port to provision and repair his battered old hulk, obliged 
to live on friendly terms with the natives, but his piratical 
old nostrils asniff for plunder and his piratical old soul 
longing to be off marauding once more. When would that 
be? Not till the arrival in Paris of her distinguished Ameri- 
can friends, of whom we heard a great deal. “ Charming 
people, the Bokums of Chicago, the American branch of the 
English Beauchamps, you know!” They seemed to be tak- 
ing an unconscionable time to get there. She would have 
insisted on being driven over to Northchurch to call at the 
palace, but that the bishop was understood to be holding 
confirmations at the other -end of the diocese. 


356 


The Great Valdez Sapphire 


I was alone in the house one afternoon sitting by my 
window, toying with the key of my safe, and wondering 
whether I dare treat myself to a peep at my treasures, when 
a suspicious movement in the park below caught my atten- 
tion. A black figure certainly dodged from behind one tree 
to the next, and then into the shadow of the park paling 
instead of keeping to the footpath. It looked queer. I 
caught up my field glass and marked him at one point 
where he was bound to come into the open for a few steps. 
He crossed the strip of turf with giant strides and got into 
cover again, but not quick enough to prevent me recogniz- 
ing him. It was—great heavens!—the bishop! In a soft 
hat pulled over his forehead, with a long cloak and a big 
stick, he looked like a poacher. 

Guided by some mysterious instinct I hurried to meet 
him. I opened the conservatory door, and in he rushed 
like a hunted rabbit. Without explanation I led him up 
the wide staircase to my room, where he dropped into a 
chair and wiped his face. 

“You are astonished, Mr. Acton,” he panted. “I will 
explain directly. Thanks.” He tossed off the glass of 
brandy I had poured out without waiting for the qualifying 
soda, and looked better. 

“T am in serious trouble. You can help me. I’ve hada 
shock to-day—a grievous shock.” He stopped and tried 
to pull himself together. ‘I must trust you implicitly, Mr. 
Acton, I have no choice. Tell me what you think of this.” 
He drew a case from his breast pocket and opened it. “TIT 
promised you should see the Valdez sapphire. Look 
there! 

The Valdez sapphire! -A great big shining lump of blue 
crystal—flawless and of perfect color—that was all. I took 
it up, breathed on it, drew out my magnifier, looked at it 
in one light and another. What was wrong with it? I 
could not say. Nine experts out of ten would undoubtedly 
have pronounced the stone genuine. I, by virtue of some 
mysterious instinct that has hitherto always guided me 
aright, was the unlucky tenth. I looked at the bishop. His 


357 


English Mystery Stories 


eyes met mine. There was no need of spoken word be- 
tween us. 

“Has Lady Carwitchet shown you her sapphire?” was 
his most unexpected question. “She has? Now, Mr. 
Acton, on your honor as a connoisseur and a gentleman, 
which of the two is the Valdez?” 

“Not this one.” I could say naught else. 

“You were my last hope.” He broke off, and dropped 
his face on his folded arms with a groan that’ shook the 
table on which he rested, while I stood dismayed at myself 
for having let so hasty a judgment escape me. He lifted 
a ghastly countenance to me. “She vowed she would see 
me ruined and disgraced. I made her my enemy by cross- 
ing some of her schemes once, and she never forgives. She 
will keep her word. I shall appear before the world as a 
fraudulent trustee. I can neither produce the valuable con- 
fided to my charge nor make the loss good. I have only 
an incredible story to tell,’ he dropped his head and 
groaned again. “ Who will believe me?” 

“T will, for one.” 

“Ah, you? Yes, you know her. She took my wife from 
me, Mr. Acton. Heaven only knows what the hold was 
that she had over poor Mira. She encouraged her to set 
me at defiance and eventually to leave me. She was an- 
swerable for all the scandalous folly and extravagance of 
poor Mira’s life in Paris—spare me the telling of the story. 
She left her at last to die alone and uncared for. I reached 
my wife to find her dying of a fever from which Lady Car- 
witchet and her crew had fled. She was raving in delirium, 
and died without recognizing me. Some trouble she had 
been in which I must never know oppressed her. At the 
very last she roused from a long stupor and spoke to the 
nurse. ‘Tell him to get the sapphire back—she stole it. 
She has robbed my child.’ Those were her last words. 
The nurse understood no English, and treated them as 
wandering ; but J heard them, and knew she was sane when 
she spoke.” 

“What did you do?” 


358 


The Great Valdez Sapphire 


“What could I? I saw Lady Carwitchet, who laughed 
at me, and defied me to make her confess or disgorge. I 
took the pendant to more than one eminent jeweler on pre- 
tense of having the setting seen to, and all have examined 
and admired without giving a hint of there being anything 
wrong. I allowed a celebrated mineralogist to see it; he 
gave no sign a 

“ Perhaps they are right and we are wrong.” 

“No, no. Listen. I heard of an old Dutchman cele- 
brated for his imitations. I went to him, and he told mé 
at once that he had been allowed by Montanaro to copy 
the Valdez—setting and all—for the Paris Exhibition. I 
showed him this, and he claimed it for his own work at 
once, and pointed out his private mark upon it. You must 
take your magnifier to find it; a Greek Beta. He also told 
me that he had sold it to Lady Carwitchet more than a 
year ago.” 

“Tt is a terrible position.” 

“Tt is. My co-trustee died lately. I have never dared 
to have another appointed. I am bound to hand over the 
sapphire to my daughter on her marriage, if her husband 
consents to take the name of Montanaro.” 

The bishop’s face was ghastly pale, and the moisture 
started on his brow. I racked my brain for some word of 
comfort. 

“Miss Panton may never marry.” 

“ But she will!”-he shouted. “That is the blow that 
has been dealt me to-day. My chaplain—actually, my chap- 
lain—tells me that he is going out as a temperance mis- 
sionary to equatorial Africa, and has the assurance to add 
that he believes my daughter is not indisposed to accom- 
pany him!” His consummating wrath acted as a mo- 
mentary stimulant. He sat upright, his eyes flashing and 
his brow thunderous. I felt for that chaplain. Then he 
collapsed miserably. “The sapphires will have to be pro- 
duced, identified, revalued. How shall I come out of it? 
Think of the disgrace, the ripping up of old scandals! Even 
if I were to compound with Lady Carwitchet, the sum she 


359 


English Mystery Stories 


hinted at was too monstrous. She wants more than my 
money. Help me, Mr. Acton! For the sake of your own 
family interests, help me!” 

“T beg your pardon—family interests? I don’t under- 
stand.” 

“Tf my daughter is childless, her next of kin is poor 
Marmaduke Panton, who is dying at Cannes, not married, 
or likely to marry; and failing him, your nephew, Sir 
Thomas Acton, succeeds.” 

My nephew Tom! Leta, or Leta’s baby, might come to 
be the possible inheritor of the great Valdez sapphire! The 
blood rushed to my head as I looked at the great shining 
swindle before me. “ What diabolic jugglery was at work 
when the exchange was made?” I demanded fiercely. 

“It must have been on the last occasion of her wearing 
the sapphires in London. I ought never to have let her 
out of my sight.” 

“You must put a stop to Miss Panton’s marriage in the 
first place,” I pronounced as autocratically as he could 
have done himself. 

“Not to be thought of,” he admitted helplessly. “ Mira 
has my force of character. She knows her rights, and she 
will have her jewels. I want you to take charge of the— 
thing for me. [If it’s in the house she’ll make me produce 
it. She’ll inquire at the banker’s. If you have it we can 
gain time, if but for a day or two.” He broke off. Carriage 
wheels were crashing on the gravel outside. We looked 
at one another in consternation. Flight was imperative. I 
hurried him downstairs and out of the conservatory just 
as the door bell rang. I think we both lost our heads in 
the confusion. He shoved the case into my hands, and 
I pocketed it, without a thought of the awful responsi- 
bility I was incurring, and saw him disappear into the shel- 
ter of the friendly night. 

When I think of what my feelings were that evening— 
of my murderous hatred of that smirking, jesting Jezebel 
who sat opposite me at dinner, my wrathful indignation at 
the thought of the poor little expected heir defrauded ere 


360 


The Great Valdez Sapphire 


his birth; of the crushing contempt I felt for myself and. 
the bishop as a pair of witless idiots unable to see our 
way out of the dilemma; all this boiling and surging 
through my soul, I can only wonder—Domenico having 
given himself a holiday, and the kitchen maid doing her 
worst and wickedest—that gout or jaundice did not put 
an end to this story at once. 

“Uncle Paul!” Leta was looking her sweetest when. 
she tripped into my room next morning. “I’ve news for 
you. She,” pointing a delicate forefinger in the direction. 
of the corridor, “is going! Her Bokums have reached 
Paris at last, and sent for her to join them at the Grand. 
Hotel.” 

I was thunderstruck. The longed-for deliverance had 
but come to remove hopelessly and forever out of my 
reach Lady Carwitchet and the great Valdez sapphire. 

“Why, aren’t you overjoyed? Iam. We are going to: 
celebrate the event by a dinner party. Tom’s hospitable. 
soul is vexed by the lack of entertainment we had pro-- 
vided her. We must ask the Brownleys some day or other,. 
and they will be delighted to meet anything in the way 
of a ladyship, or such smart folks as the Duberly-Parkers.. 
Then we may as well have the Blomfields, and air that. 
awful modern Sévres dessert service she gave us when. 
we were married.” I had no objection to make, and she: 
went on, rubbing her soft cheek against my shoulder like 
the purring little cat she was: ‘“ Now I want you to do 
something to please me—and Mrs. Blomfield. She has. 
set her heart on seeing your rubies, and though I know 
you hate her about as much as you do that Sévres 
china ss 

“What! Wear my rubies with that! I won’t. I'll tell 
you what I will do, though. I’ve got some carbuncles as. 
big as prize gooseberries, a whole set. Then you have 
only to put those Bohemian glass vases and candelabra on 
the table, and let your gardener do his worst with his great 
forced, scentless, vulgar blooms, and we shall all be in keep- 
ing.” Leta pouted. An idea struck me. “Or I'll do as 


301 


English Mystery Stories 


you wish, on one condition. You get Lady Carwitchet to 
wear her big sapphire, and don’t tell her I wish it.” 

I lived through the next few days as one in some evil 
dream. The sapphires, like twin specters, haunted me day 
and night. Was ever man so tantalized? To hold the 
shadow and see the substance dangled temptingly within 
reach. The bishop made no sign of ridding me of my un- 
welcome charge, and the thought of what might happen 
in a case of burglary—fire—earthquake—made me start 
and tremble at all sorts of inopportune moments. 

I kept faith with Leta, and reluctantly produced my 
beautiful rubies on the night of her dinner party. Emerg- 
ing from my room I came full upon Lady Carwitchet in 
the corridor. She was dressed for dinner, and at her throat 
I caught the blue gleam of the great sapphire. Leta had 
kept faith with me. I don’t know what I stammered in 
reply to her ladyship’s remarks; my whole soul was ab- 
sorbed in the contemplation of the intoxicating loveliness 
of the gem. That a Palais Royal deception! Incredible! 
My fingers twitched, my breath came short and fierce with 
the lust of possession. She must have seen the covet- 
ous glare in my eyes. A look of gratified spiteful com- 
placency overspread her features, as she swept on ahead 
and descended the stairs before me. I followed her to the 
drawing-room door. She stopped suddenly, and murmur- 
ing something unintelligible hurried back again. 

Everybody was assembled there that I expected to see, 
with an addition. Not a welcome one by the look on 
Tom’s face. He stood on the hearthrug conversing with a 
great hulking, high-shouldered fellow, sallow-faced, with a 
heavy mustache and drooping eyelids, from the corners of 
which flashed out a sudden suspicious look as I approached, 
which lighted up into a greedy one as it rested on my 
rubies, and seemed unaccountably familiar to me, till Lady 
Carwitchet tripping past me exclaimed: 

_ “He has come at last! My naughty, naughty boy! Mr. 
Acton, this is my son, Lord Carwitchet! ” 
I broke off short in the midst of my polite acknowledg- 


362 


The Great Valdez Sapphire 


ments to stare blankly at her. The sapphire was gone! A’ 
great gilt cross, with a Scotch pebble like an acid drop, was 
her sole decoration. 

“T had to put my pendant away,” she explained confiden- 
tially ; “the clasp had got broken somehow.” I didn’t be- 
lieve a word. 

Lord Carwitchet contributed little to the general enter- 
tainment at dinner, but fell into confidential talk with Mrs. 
Duberly-Parker. I caught a few unintelligible remarks 
across the table. They referred, I subsequently discovered, 
to the lady’s little book on Northchurch races, and I recol- 
lected that the Spring Meeting was.on, and to-morrow 
“Cup Day.” After dinner there was great talk about get- 
ting up a party to go on General Fairford’s drag. Lady 
Carwitchet was in ecstasies and tried to coax me into join- 
ing. Leta declined positively. Tom accepted sulkily. 

The look in Lord Carwitchet’s eye returned to my mind 
as I locked up my rubies that night. It made him look so 
like his mother! I went round my fastenings with unusual 
care. Safe and closets and desk and doors, I tried them 
all. Coming at last to the bathroom, it opened at once. 
It was the housemaid’s doing. She had evidently taken ad- 
vantage of my having abandoned the room to give it “a 
thorough spring cleaning,” and I anathematized her. The 
furniture was all piled together and veiled with sheets, the 
carpet and felt curtain were gone, there were new brooms 
about. As I peered around, a voice close at my ear made 
me jump—Lady Carwitchet’s! 

“T tell you I have nothing, not a penny! I shall have 
to borrow my train fare before I can leave this. They'll be 
glad enough to lend it.” 

Not only had the portiére been removed, but the door 
behind it had been unlocked and left open for convenience 
of dusting behind the wardrobe. I might as well have been 
in the bedroom. 

“Don’t tell me,’ I recognized Carwitchet’s growl. 
“You’ve not been here all this time for nothing. You’ve 
been collecting for a Kilburn cot or getting subscriptions 


363 


English Mystery Stories 


for the distressed Irish landlords. I know you. Now I’m 
not going to see myself ruined for the want of a paltry 
hundred or so. I tell you the colt is a dead certainty. If I 
could have got a thousand or two on him last week, we 
might have ended our dog days millionaires. Hand over 
what you can. You’ve money’s worth, if not money. 
Where’s that sapphire you stole?” 

“JT didn’t. I can show you the receipted bill. All J pos- 
sess is honestly come by. What could you do with it, even 
if I gave it you? You couldn't sell it as the Valdez, and 
you can’t get it cut up as you might if it were real.” 

“Tf it’s only bogus, why are you always in such a flutter 
about it? I'll do something with it, never fear. Hand 
over.” 

“T can’t. I haven’t got it. I had to raise something on 
it before I left town.” 

“Will you swear it’s not in that wardrobe? I dare say 
you will, I mean to see. Give me those keys.” 

I heard a struggle and a jingle, then the wardrobe door 
must have been flung open, for a streak of light struck 
through a crack in the wood of the back. Creeping close 
and peeping through, I could see an awful sight. Lady 
Carwitchet in a flannel wrapper, minus hair, teeth, com- 
plexion, pointing a skinny forefinger that quivered with 
rage at her son, who was out of the range of my vision. 

“Stop that, and throw those keys down here directly, or 
I'll rouse the house. Sir Thomas is a magistrate, and will 
lock you up as soon as look at you.” She clutched at the 
bell rope as she spoke. “Tl swear I’m in danger of my 
life from you and give you in charge. Yes, and when you’re 
in prison I’ll keep you there till you die. I’ve often thought 
I’d do it. How about the hotel robberies last summer at 
Cowes, eh? Mightn’t the police be grateful for a hint or 
two? And how about as 
_ The keys fell with a crash on the bed, accompanied by 
some bad language in an apologetic tone, and the door 
slammed to. I crept trembling to bed. 

This new and horrible complication of the situation filled 


364 


The Great Valdez Sapphire 


me with dismay. Lord Carwitchet’s wolfish glance at my 
tubies took a new meaning. They were safe enough, I be- 
lieved—but the sapphire! If he disbelieved his mother, how 
long would she be able to keep. it from his clutches? That 
she had some plot of her own of which the bishop would 
eventually be the victim I did not doubt, or why had she 
not made her bargain with him long ago? But supposing 
she took fright, lost her head, allowed her son to wrest the 
jewel from her, or gave consent to its being mutilated, 
divided! I lay in a cold perspiration till morning. 

My terrors haunted me all day. They were with me at 
breakfast time when Lady Carwitchet, tripping in smiling, 
made a last attempt to induce me to accompany her and 
keep her “ bad, bad boy ” from getting among “ those hor- 
rid betting men.” 

They haunted me through the long peaceful day with 
Leta and the ¢éte-d-téte dinner, but they swarmed around 
and beset me sorest when, sitting alone over my sitting- 
room fire, I listened for the return of the drag party. I 
read my newspaper and brewed myself some hot strong 
drink, but there comes a time of night when no fire can 
warm and no drink can cheer. The bishop’s despairing 
face kept me company, and his troubles and the wrongs of 
the future heir took possession of me. Then the uncanny 
noises that make all old houses ghostly during the small 
hours began to make themselves heard. Muffled footsteps 
trod the corridor, stopping to listen at every door, door 
latches gently clicked, boards creaked unreasonably, sounds 
of stealthy movements came from the locked-up bathroom. 
The welcome crash of wheels at last, and the sound of the 
front-door bell. I could hear Lady Carwitchet making her 
shrill adieux to her friends and her steps in the corridor. 
She was softly humming a little song as she approached. 
I heard her unlock her bedroom door before she entered— 
an odd thing to do. Tom came sleepily stumbling to his 
room later. I put my head out. “ Where is Lord Car- 
witchet ?” 

. “Haven't you seen him? He left us hours ago. Not 


365 


English Mystery Stories 


come home, eh? Well, he’s welcome to stay away. I don’t 
want to see more of him.” ‘Tom’s brow was dark and his 
voice surly. “I gave him to understand as much.” What- 
ever had happened, Tom was evidently too disgusted to 
explain just then. — 

I went back to my fire unaccountably relieved, and 
brewed myself another and a stronger brew. It warmed 
me this time, but excited me foolishly. There must be 
some way out of the difficulty. I felt now as if I could 
almost see it if I gave my mind to it. Why—suppose— 
there might be no difficulty after all! The bishop was a 
nervous old gentleman. He might have been mistaken all. 
through, Bogaerts might have been mistaken, I might—no. 
I could not have been mistaken—or I thought not. I 
fidgeted and fumed and argued with myself till I found I 
should have no peace of mind without a look at the stone 
in my possession, and I actually went to the safe and took 
the case out. 

The sapphire certainly looked different by lamplight. I 
sat and stared, and all but overpersuaded my better judg- 
ment into giving it a verdict. Bogaerts’s mark—I suddenly 
remembered it. I took my magnifier and held the pendant 
to the light. There, scratched upon the stone, was the 
Greek Beta! There came a tap on my door, and before I 
could answer, the handle turned softly and Lord Carwitchet 
stood before me. I whipped the case into my dressing- 
gown pocket and stared at him. He was not pleasant to 
look at, especially at that time of night. He had a dishev- 
eled, desperate air, his voice was hoarse, his red-rimmed 
eyes wild. 

“T beg your pardon,” he began civilly enough. “I saw 
your light burning, and thought, as we go by the early train 
to-morrow, you might allow me to consult you now on a 
little business of my mother’s.” His eyes roved about 
the room. Was he trying to find the whereabouts of 
my safe? “ You know a lot about precious stones, don’t 
your” 

“So my friends are kind enough to say. Won't you sit 


The Great Valdez Sapphire 


down? I have unluckily little chance of indulging the taste 
on my own account,” was my cautious reply. 

“ But you’ve written a book about them, and know them 
when you see them, don’t you? Now my mother has given 
me something, and would like you to give a guess at its 
value. Perhaps you can put me in the way of disposing 
Olt 

“T certainly can do so if it is worth anything. Is that 
it?” I was in a fever of excitement, for I guessed what. 
was clutched in his palm. He held out to me the Valdez 
sapphire. 

How it shone and sparkled like a great blue star! I 
made myself a deprecating smile as I took it from him, but 
how dare I call it false to its face? As well accuse the sun 
in heaven of being a cheap imitation. I faltered and pre- 
varicated feebly. Where was my moral courage, and where 
was the good, honest, thumping lie that should have aided 
me? “I have the best authority for recognizing this as a 
very good copy of a famous stone in the possession of the 
Bishop of Northchurch.” His scowl grew so black that I 
saw he believed me, and I went on more cheerily: “ This 
was manufactured by Johannes Bogaerts—I can give you 
his address, and you can make inquiries yourself—by spe- 
cial permission of the then owner, the late Leone Mon- 
tanaro.”’ 

“ Hand it back!” he interrupted (his other remarks were 
outrageous, but satisfactory to hear); but I waved him off. 
I couldn’t give it up. It fascinated me. I toyed with it, I 
caressed it. I made it display its different tones of color. 
I must see the two stones together. I must see it outshine 
its paltry rival. It was a whimsical frenzy that seized me 
—TI can call it by no other name. 

“Would you like to see the original? Curiously enough, 
I have it here. The bishop has left it in my charge.” 

The wolfish light flamed up in Carwitchet’s eyes as I 
drew forth the case. He laid the Valdez down on a sheet 
of paper, and I placed the other, still in its case, beside it. 
In that moment they looked identical, except for the little 


367, 


English Mystery Stories 


loop of sham stones, replaced by a plain gold band in the 
bishop’s jewel. Carwitchet leaned across the table eagerly, 
the table gave a lurch, the lamp tottered, crashed over, and 
we were left in semidarkness. 

“Don’t stir!’ Carwitchet shouted. ‘ The paraffin is all 
over the place!” He seized my sofa blanket, and flung it 
over the table while I stood helpless. “ There, that’s safe 
now. Have you candles on the chimney-piece? I’ve got 
matches.” 

He looked very white and excited as he lit up. “ Might 
have been an awkward job with all that burning paraffin 
running about,” he said quite pleasantly. “I hope no real | 
harm is done.” I was lifting the rug with shaking hands. 
The two stones lay as I had placed them. No! I nearly 
dropped it back again. It was the stone in the case that 
had the loop with the three sham sapphires! 

Carwitchet picked the other up hastily. “So you say this 
is rubbish?” he asked, his eyes sparkling wickedly, and an 
attempt at mortification in his tone. 

“ Utter rubbish!” I pronounced, with truth and decision, 
snapping up the case and pocketing it. “ Lady Carwitchet 
must have known it.” 

“ Ah, well, it’s disappointing, isn’t it? Good-by, we shall 
not meet again.” 

I shook hands with him most cordially. ‘ Good-by, Lord 
Carwitchet. So glad to have met you and your mother. 
It has been a source of the greatest pleasure, I assure you.” 

I have never seen the Carwitchets since. The bishop 
drove over next day in rather better spirits. Miss Panton 
had refused the chaplain. 

“It doesn’t matter, my lord,” I said to him heartily. 
“We've all been under some strange misconception. The 
stone in your possession is the veritable one. I could swear 
to that anywhere. The sapphire Lady Carwitchet wears is 
only an excellent imitation, and—I have seen it with my 


own eyes—is the one bearing Bogaerts’s mark, the Greek 
Beta," 


368 


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